The Great Destroyers

by Caroline Tung Richmond

  I wind my way around the circular tables until I locate my place card. It appears that I’ll be seated next to Envoy Yu on my right and Zoya Federova on my left. My eyes go wide reading that, and I wonder who made up these seating assignments because the last thing I want to do is spend the next hour making polite conversation with the girl who will be going after my throat in less than twenty-four hours.

  Fortunately though, Zoya and I spend the first two courses politely ignoring each other even though our elbows are mere inches apart. We have a bit of a tangle when we both reach for the butter at the same time, but I motion for her to take it first and she gives a little nod, which is about as riveting as our interaction gets.

  I have a feeling that she’s biding her time here like I’m doing. She pushes her food around her plate and dabs her napkin on her forehead every so often, probably because the room feels warm with so many bodies and bots crammed into the space. More than once she excuses herself from the table and disappears for a few minutes. I figure she’s sneaking off to the restroom to get a break or splash a little water over her face, and I have to admit it’s not a half-bad strategy when you’re stuck at a dull dinner.

  We’re waiting for dessert to be served when Zoya pushes her chair back yet again. I don’t think much of it because I’m relieved for the extra elbow space, but then I hear a thump behind me.

  Snapping my head around, I find Zoya collapsed on the floor. She’s curled on her side, clutching at her stomach, and I start hearing people gasp.

  “Is she all right?” someone asks.

  “Did she trip?” someone else says.

  I have no idea what happened, but as soon as I get to my feet, Zoya starts retching, and I know that this can’t be good for her. Could it be food poisoning?

  I grab Zoya’s napkin to offer it to her, but she doesn’t seem to notice me. She’s whimpering and her face is as white as our dinner plates, and soon she’s clutching at her throat.

  The First Lady has stood up and is motioning at one of the security guards. “Call for Dr. Young!”

  I go very still.

  We’re miles from the stadium, but somehow this feels like the arena all over again.

  A crowd soon takes shape around Zoya, American and Soviet alike, gathering closer and closer until she vomits again. Only then does everyone lurch back.

  “She must’ve had too much to drink,” I hear someone whisper loudly.

  But I sincerely doubt that since Zoya barely touched her wine at dinner.

  More murmurs ripple while Premier Khrushchev pushes through to reach Zoya’s side, where he kneels down to hold her hand.

  “I think it’s best for everyone to return to the Blue Room. Let’s give Miss Federova a little space to breathe,” President Kennedy says calmly. When he turns to his aides, however, his tone grows more urgent. “Call the hospital.”

  Dr. Young soon arrives, medical bag in hand, while a crew of security bots comes onto the scene as well to escort the guests to the Blue Room at the president’s orders. I get one last glimpse of Zoya before I’m ushered away, and I swear I’ll never forget the look on her face, so very pale and with her eyes rolled back.

  We linger in the Blue Room for the next twenty minutes before Zoya gets carted off on a stretcher to an ambulance waiting outside. Most of the Soviet delegation decides to depart soon after, and I can’t blame them for losing their appetites. Khrushchev and the First Lady, however, stay behind, and they’re some of the first guests to return to the dining room when the Kennedys urge everyone to sit down for dessert. But I’m not hungry anymore, and I end up pushing my scoops of sorbet around with my spoon.

  On our way back to the Pavilion, Sam slides into the seat next to me, and we drive off.

  “What do you think happened to her? Food poisoning?” he asks.

  “Maybe,” I say, staring out my window at the shadows of the city. But would they have driven her to the hospital for that?

  “Something must be in the water. First we had Lukas and now it’s Zoya.”

  I can only nod. Injuries happen all the time at the Games, but they’re usually of the broken-bones-and-concussion variety. Lukas’s seizures and Zoya’s collapse are totally out of the norm, and then you add on the fact that they’re both top-ten fighters who came from Warsaw Pact countries.

  But this must be a coincidence, right? A string of bad luck.

  Yet the nervous feeling in my stomach doesn’t go away. Will there even be a match tomorrow? Zoya would have to make a speedy recovery, but she is a Federova. And if this all turns out to be a bad case of food poisoning, the match will go on. I have to prepare for it like tonight never happened.

  * * *

  When I get up the next day, I’m ready for some answers. After getting dressed and shoveling down a bowl of oatmeal at the dining hall, I make a beeline for the training center, only for Malcolm to intercept me on the quad.

  “There’s been a change to our schedule this morning. The IC wants a word with you,” he says, his eyes red like he hasn’t slept all night.

  “Is this about Zoya? Will she be able to fight today?”

  “They wouldn’t say,” he replies, irritated. “Come on.”

  Malcolm leads the way toward a small administrative building, a little cement cube on the back side of the training center that I hadn’t noticed before now. A wall of cold air hits me in the face as we walk in; the air-conditioning must be turned up full blast. I cross my arms to chase away the goose bumps, but they rise up again as we turn the corner and enter a conference room. At one end of the table, I see two people seated, accompanied by a couple of security officers behind them.

  “Good morning, Jo,” Senator Appleby says, her voice unusually tight. She gestures across the table from her. “Won’t you join us?”

  I take a seat. Malcolm reaches for the chair next to mine, but the senator stops him. “We’ll take it from here.”

  Malcolm grows stiff. “What exactly is this about?”

  “You’ll be briefed shortly,” she replies, and I wonder if this same tension played out when she nominated me to join the team. “I imagine there are a few things you need to take care of. Give us twenty minutes.”

  Realizing that he has been dismissed, Malcolm nods curtly, but I can tell by the look on his face that he isn’t happy with this development. He has a plan to follow, and the senator is tossing a wrench in it. But she’s the one with the power in this situation, so he has no choice but to go.

  After Malcolm departs in a cloud of frustration, I knit my fingers together under the table, wishing I knew what’s going on. “You wanted to speak to me?”

  “Yes, Jo. First things first though, let me introduce you to Leon Schmid, the head delegate of the IC. He has a few questions for you concerning what occurred last night at the White House.”

  The head delegate of the IC? This must be serious. “Does this have to do with Zoya? How is she?”

  “We’ll make an announcement during the broadcast shortly,” Mr. Schmid says in a soft accent that sounds German. He leans forward in his chair, his eyes a steely blue. He looks about the senator’s age, late sixties, with a crop of graying hair and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, which glint from the sunlight peeking through the window. “Were you seated next to Zoya Federova last night at the White House dinner?”

  I glance at the senator, who motions for me to answer. At least this is an easy one. “Yes, sir, I was.”

  “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary throughout the evening?”

  Aside from the fact that I was a special guest at the White House? “No, not really.”

  “Tell me about Miss Federova. Was she acting unusually?”

  I have to think back. “I don’t know—I don’t really know her. But she didn’t eat much of her food, although that could’ve been nerves. And she excused herself from the table a few times. I figured she’d gone to the restroom.”

  He jots down a sentence on a little black notepad in front of him.
“Who had access to Miss Federova’s food and drink?”

  Now that’s a strange question. “The servers, I’m assuming, and a few service bots.”

  “Did anyone get her a drink from the bar?”

  “No, not that I saw. Like I said, she didn’t seem to have much of an appetite.”

  He peers at me from behind his glasses, and his tone takes an unexpected shift. “Miss Linden, did you put anything in Zoya Federova’s food or drink?”

  I stare at him. He must be kidding, right?

  “Are you asking if I poisoned her?” I ask, incredulous.

  “It’s a yes or no question.”

  My gaze volleys over to Senator Appleby, wondering if she’s as shocked as I am, but she doesn’t look surprised at all. Only grim.

  “Go on, Jo. You may answer,” she says.

  I let my eyes shift back to Mr. Schmid. “Of course not.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s a no. Go ahead and ask anyone who was sitting near us.” I don’t know how to be more direct. My heart is hammering in my chest because I’ve got a match in a few hours to prep for; I don’t have time for these allegations. “Who’s accusing me of doing this?”

  “We’re simply conducting procedural follow-ups,” Mr. Schmid replies. “And we’re not finished yet.”

  He asks me some more questions about Zoya and the dinner before tucking his notepad into his jacket and making a swift departure without shaking my hand or thanking me for my time. I begin to get up myself, feeling dazed at what has just happened, but Senator Appleby doesn’t rise from her seat. Instead she pats my hand and tells me to sit back down.

  “I’m sorry you had to experience that, but the IC was insistent. Or rather, certain members from the Soviet delegation were putting the pressure on them,” she explains.

  I still don’t understand what’s going on. “So Zoya was poisoned?”

  “We’re awaiting the test results, but some of the Soviets are convinced that somebody has been targeting Warsaw Pact fighters.”

  I let this wash over me. They must think what happened to Lukas and Zoya is more than mere coincidence. “They’re blaming it on me?” My jaw tightens, and my mind goes straight to Lidiya. She must be mucking up trouble again. She was the one who alleged that I had “tampered” with the Soviet float and that Lukas’s seizure was somehow my fault. I’m almost sure she’s spreading lies about me.

  Senator Appleby sighs. “We’ll get this settled, Jo. Both Khrushchev and the president himself are keen on clearing this up once those test results come back.”

  I breathe a little easier hearing that. It seems like Khrushchev and Kennedy have a grip on reality at least. “What’s the latest on Zoya?”

  “She’s recovering at the hospital and very weak from whatever caused her to collapse last night. The Soviet team will make an announcement very soon, which is why I feel comfortable revealing this to you now.” Her mouth twitches. “There’s no way that the medical staff will clear her for your match. You’ll be getting a bye to the next round.”

  It takes a few seconds for the realization to sink in.

  I don’t have to fight today.

  I’m already on to Round 4.

  I imagine Zoya must be devastated, but I’m tempted to jump up and whoop. I settle instead on a great big grin. “Really?”

  “Really.” Senator Appleby lets herself return my smile. “It must be a relief. Why don’t we go share the news with that coach of yours?”

  We locate Malcolm back at the training center and tell him the news, which makes his brows shoot up, but otherwise it’s hard to read his reaction. After Senator Appleby departs, he calls Sam over to update him too.

  “Well, well. Looks like you got yourself a lucky break, kiddo,” Sam says, clapping me on the shoulder.

  I let the nickname slide this time around since this is a lucky break for me, but a shadow of unease slides through me at the same time. I want to win on my own, not on some technicality, and especially because it’s only going to reinforce the idea that I don’t deserve to be here, that I’m a girl who didn’t earn her spot.

  But I’m not going to volunteer myself to trade places with Sam, even if I could. Too much is on the line—the title, the prize money, the splashy sponsorships. I’ve promised Peter that I wouldn’t go home empty-handed, and I have to take care of whoever might stand in the way. That could mean Lidiya. It could even mean Sam. If he wins his match, there’s a decent chance that I could face him next. Team USA versus Team USA. He would definitely have the upper hand since he has already beaten me twice, but there’s no way I’d let him make that three.

  Thank goodness we’re not at that point though—yet.

  “Wish we could say the same for you, but you’ve got a match to prep for,” Malcolm tells Sam, his shoulders tensing up again. “So let’s get started. You’ll have to be ready for whatever Lidiya might throw at you tonight. Don’t take your eyes off her, not even for a second. She’s one scheming little—” He glances at me and doesn’t finish the thought, although I have a pretty good idea of what he was about to say.

  “And don’t turn your back on her if you can help it,” I add. “You know Lidiya’s MO. She’d skewer you with a butter knife if she could get away with it.”

  Sam grimaces. “Thank you for the support, you two. I’m touched.”

  Hours later, we’re all back at the stadium for his big match, and thankfully I get to be a bystander. The stadium is a real pressure cooker tonight. Both Albie and Rushi have won their respective matches, so now it’s down to this last game to determine whether Lidiya or Sam will move on. It sure feels like we’ll be watching the championship since it’ll be a face-off against the top two fighters in the world.

  I’m wearing a fresh Team USA uniform as I make my way toward the bench. Sam and Lidiya have yet to make their big entrance, but the crowd—mostly American—is already chanting “U-S-A” to a beat. They’re grinning and eating popcorn, and Sam’s fan club is out in full force, looking like they’ve multiplied. You can’t miss them since they’re holding up posters in neon colors. Neither can I miss Sam’s family, who has gathered in a few fancy box seats, only a couple rows up and to my left. His stepfather is busy talking to the man next to him while his mother hands out bottles of soda pop to Sam’s little brothers who have painted their faces red, white, and blue. One of them—I think it’s Sterling—notices me and gives a hearty wave. I smile and wave back.

  But there’s a tension in the air too. I can’t help but notice how empty the VIP section looks. When I was here for Sam’s Round 2 match against Romania, the whole place was packed with IC members and diplomats and a few heads of state—Prime Minister Fanfani of Italy, Prime Minister Ikeda of Japan, President Tito of Yugoslavia—but this time around the area is noticeably sparser. Kennedy had to fly south this morning to meet with Dr. King and the SCLC, and yet there’s a whole entire row that remains unoccupied.

  In the seats right behind me, I hear two British envoys addressing the absence.

  “Looks like most of the Soviet delegation refused to attend,” one of them says.

  “They want to pause the Games since the Federova girl is in the hospital,” replies his neighbor.

  “It’s open revolt against Khrushchev.”

  I shiver at that. This sounds very serious.

  “But he isn’t budging a single millimeter,” the other envoy says. “He doesn’t want to jeopardize the Accord with Kennedy.”

  I can’t hear them anymore because the announcer starts talking over the loudspeakers, so I direct my attention to Khrushchev himself. A glance over my shoulder lets me see that he’s seated next to First Lady Khrushcheva. She’s trying to make small talk, but Khrushchev has his arms crossed and is frowning. It’s strange to see the two of them surrounded by empty chairs.

  Khrushchev really must want to get the Accord signed, even if it means going it alone against his own delegation.

  The noise ratchets up again when the f
ighters come into view. Sam pops out of the elevator first with Lidiya not far behind. The match proceeds like the others, with the anthems and the handshakes, before the two of them enter the pit. The countdown begins, and all thirty thousand of us in the stands get to our feet, some of us on our tiptoes to see the action.

  “Come on, Sam,” I whisper, crossing my fingers tightly. Beside me on the bench, Malcolm is quiet as a statue. His anxiety is palpable.

  As soon as the whistle blows, I lose sight of Lidiya. She’s that blazing fast. She charges at Sam at full velocity, her Vostok’s legs moving so quickly that they look like a blur. Sam, however, was clearly expecting this. By the time Lidiya reaches the spot where he’d been standing a scant second earlier, he has already leapt over her head, out of harm’s way, and whips back around with a punch as soon as he lands.

  “We’re off to the races with a bang!” the announcer says, giddy with the speed of the match.

  Sam clips her shoulder, but it isn’t a direct hit. Shaking off the blow, Lidiya jabs at his face, but Sam ducks it easily. His left hand shoots up in an uppercut, and the punch lands squarely against the Vostok’s chin. The whole stadium cringes at the sound of metal slamming metal, and I know from experience that Lidiya is feeling the impact down to her toes. She might even be tasting blood in her mouth guard.

  The American fans roar, thinking Sam has taken an early lead, but Lidiya manages to sidestep him when he tries to pin her. Just like that we’re back to biting our nails and watching what happens next, doing our best not to blink because they’re moving so quickly.

  Like some sort of superhuman, Lidiya crouches down and soars toward the bars, readying an aerial attack. But once again Sam predicts what’s coming. He leaps up to meet her—full-out, no mercy, fight fire with fire—and he reaches up to take her by the feet to throw her down. But Lidiya pulls her knees against her chest to avoid him, and Sam’s fingers grasp at air. The two of them barely miss each other midair before they crash onto the ground.