The Great Destroyers

by Caroline Tung Richmond

“White?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say, taken aback by his reaction. I really thought that I would have to comfort and assure him.

  “Everyone has always thought that you were white, Jo. Not me though,” he says softly. “I always get questions like ‘Where are you really from?’ because I don’t look like you or Dad.”

  “You don’t look like Mom either.”

  “I look like her enough.”

  Now I’m the one to go quiet. “You should’ve told me that people were giving you grief.”

  “I was fine though. I ignored them,” he says, sounding so much older than thirteen in this moment. “We don’t have to get into this if you don’t want to. Would you rather talk about your match tomorrow?”

  This is not how I thought our conversation would go at all, but Peter doesn’t seem bothered much. In fact, he starts discussing strategy with me, and I let him talk because I’m still trying to figure out how to weather this press disaster.

  “Jo, are you listening? I think you should go strong out of the gate. Trip her up and go in for the KO.”

  I snap out of my daze. “Sure thing,” I say, noticing how grown-up he sounds.

  Peter is right though. I have to focus on this next match. I can’t control our customers or the reporters, but I can win this game tomorrow and the finals after it. Everything else—the headlines, the lack of sponsorships … I just have to ignore it all. Like Peter does.

  After a quick dinner by myself, I finally drift off to sleep, and when I wake up in the morning, I realize that a solid night of rest has done me some good. My muscles are sore but not too badly, and a hot shower helps to work out the kinks. Inevitably, the memory of the press conference invades my mind, but I block it off the best I can and try to keep moving. I won’t read the papers today or listen to the radio or watch any news reports. Let people talk all they want about my mother and my race.

  I’ve got a match to win and a ticket to punch to the top of the podium.

  I try to pretend that this is any other game day. I make sure to eat a good-size breakfast—my usual bowl of oatmeal but sprinkled with brown sugar and a sliced banana—before I head to a light training session. Time seems to speed up from there. Lunch. A phone call home. A strategy meeting with Malcolm to go over last-minute details. Then I ring the hospital to see how Sam’s doing, but the nurse says she can’t give me any details over the phone since I’m not family. And then it’s time for the 3:00 p.m. matchup between Lidiya and Albie. Malcolm and I watch it together in our training section, both of us opting to stand in front of the screen instead of sitting down.

  As we listen to the anthems play, Malcolm gives me an update. “We put out the press release this morning about your mother. I sent a copy up to your room.”

  I thank him even though I have no intention of reading it.

  “I canceled your press conference for later today as well.”

  “Can’t you cancel them for the rest of the Games?” I don’t want to speak to another reporter ever again.

  “We’ll have to see.”

  I consider asking him about the blowback now that my secret is out in the open. Has anyone on the Association asked for me to be dismissed? How much outcry has been stirring up in the public? But I chicken out. I’d rather duck my head in the sand and not think about that. Besides, the match is set to start.

  “My bets are on Lidiya,” I murmur.

  “Let’s see what the Brit can do,” Malcolm replies dryly, but there’s not much hope in his tone.

  In the end, Albie puts forth a good effort, but Lidiya is too much for him. Too fast. Too agile. She doesn’t even have to employ her trademark sneakiness. She merely tosses Albie from one side of the pit to the other until he’s dazed enough and she puts him out of his misery. The whole thing lasts under twenty minutes.

  Malcolm shuts off the television and doesn’t remark upon Lidiya. Instead he says, “You have to focus on the ten-meter target before you aim for the twenty.”

  Easy for him to say since he won’t be the one facing Lidiya in the pit. Then again, I won’t either if I don’t make it through this next round.

  “It’s almost time to head over to the stadium,” he says, dismissing me. “I’ll meet you there.”

  After I’ve gathered up my things, I take a chauffeured car into the city proper, curving around the streets and hopping out by the VIP entrance. A few dozen fans have gathered by the doors, eager for a picture or an autograph. They stand behind a metal partition that’s guarded by some security bots that emit a warning (Take a step back, please) if anyone gets too close.

  I give everyone a wave before heading toward the door, but my eye catches on a poster that a young white girl is holding up, which says, Go, Jo, Go!

  I can’t help but grin. This is exactly the pick-me-up I needed this morning. I switch directions and walk toward her, watching her mouth open wider and wider as I draw closer.

  “Hi there. Want me to sign that poster for you?” I ask.

  She squeaks something incoherent in reply and digs a pen out of her pocket.

  “So what’s your name?” I ask as I grab a corner of the poster. I’ve barely finished writing Jo when I notice someone pushing through the crowd toward us. Probably someone else who wants an autograph. I glance up to say that I can’t stay long when they start yelling.

  “Go back to Beijing! We don’t need your kind on our team!”

  The words hit me like a slap and I drop the pen, but that’s not the worst of it. Before I can blink, something cold and slippery smacks me in the cheek. It smears half my face and catches in my hair, and it smells something awful.

  The security bots go berserk. “Alert! Alert!” they say in their mechanical voices while the human guards idling by the doors finally look up from the magazines that they were reading.

  Some of the crowd scatters while others click away with their cameras. For a second, I lock eyes with the little girl, who’s gripping on to the poster, and I realize that I haven’t finished the autograph, but I don’t know where her pen has fallen.

  “I’m … I’m …” I stammer. I want to tell her sorry, but my mouth isn’t working properly and now the stink is really getting into my nostrils and I think I might throw up.

  I bolt toward the stadium, flashing my badge at the guards, and stumble inside. I use my sleeve to wipe my face and realize that it’s covered in rotten rice.

  We don’t want your kind on our team, the sneer echoes.

  I have to get this muck off me—and out of my head.

  Picking up the pace, I sprint for the locker room and try to hold myself together, but as I round the final corner, I plow straight into Malcolm. He catches me by the shoulders but pulls away as soon as the stench hits his nose.

  “What happened to you?” he asks, bewildered.

  “I got rotten rice thrown at me. What else does it look like?” I spit out angrily. The shock of what occurred outside now turns into rage. I’m so angry that I’m trembling. “They told me to go back to China.”

  He blinks twice, finally understanding the reference, and his mouth tightens. “Who said that?”

  “Some bigot outside the stadium! They’re probably long gone by now.” Tears fill my eyes, unbidden, as if this day couldn’t get any worse. But Malcolm doesn’t notice that I’m crying. For the first time since I met him, he seems at a loss for words.

  “You hurt?” he says gruffly.

  I shake my head. Not physically, I guess.

  “Good,” he says before flinching. “I mean, hit the showers and get yourself checked in. I’m going to talk to the Association about bulking up security outside.”

  I nod. At least he’s taking this somewhat seriously, but that’s only a small comfort when I reach the locker room and try to get this mess out of my hair. The rice has partially disintegrated into the strands, and I have to run a fine-tooth comb through them to wash it all out. Even though I have a schedule to keep, I let the water run over me and breathe in the ste
am, trying to hold back the tears again.

  Why hadn’t I run after that coward outside? I could’ve given them a pummeling, but I froze up and the only instinct I had was to get far, far away.

  I rest my forehead against the cool tiles in the shower as two emotions duke it out inside me. Anger and shame. They take turns tugging on my heart, but then they get company. Despair. What if this happens again when I enter the stadium? Or whenever I head back to the Pavilion? Or the next time I’m walking down the sidewalk, trying to live my life?

  “Get a grip on yourself, Linden,” I whisper. I wish there was something to make this all go away because I have a match to prep for and I don’t have time for this. And I really can’t let this affect me in the pit. I have to block it out. Shove it away.

  But I can still smell that rotten rice even though I’ve already washed it down the drain and shampooed my hair twice.

  I towel off and get dressed in my game-day uniform and remind myself that I have to keep moving. There’s too much at stake to curl up and cry right now. So I keep my chin high and my eyes straight as I walk over to register for the match, only to see that Rushi is heading there as well and she beats me to the desk by a couple paces. Just my luck.

  “Your ID, miss?” the registrar asks her.

  “Oh, yes. It’s right here.” Rushi tries to reach into her bag, but the zipper catches and she only has one hand free since the other is gripping on to a thermos.

  I automatically take the metal cylinder from her so she can get on with registration and I can take my turn at the desk. She nods at me gratefully.

  When she’s finished checking in, I try to sidestep her, but Rushi matches my movement, effectively blocking me.

  “I saw the newspapers today. Your mother was Chinese?” she asks shyly.

  “Yes, she was,” I say, my tone flat as the Great Plains. I know it’s rude, but I’m not feeling talkative and I really don’t want to discuss this right now.

  She must notice because she says, “Good luck today, Jo.”

  I soften a little on the inside. Unlike me, Rushi hasn’t been able to hide the fact that she’s Chinese, and I wonder if she’s heard racist taunts since she arrived in America. Chances are, she has.

  “Good luck to you too,” I say, my eyes finally meeting hers. Only then do I notice that she’s looking pale. Maybe even feverish, since I can see tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip. I’m about to ask if she’s feeling well. But Envoy Yu is suddenly at her side, shuffling her away before I can say anything else.

  I’m running ten minutes behind, but to his credit, Malcolm doesn’t chew me out about it. He just motions for me to move into my warm-up and says nothing more about the rice incident. I’m not sure if I’m miffed by that or relieved. Likely both. But I don’t want to bring it up either, so I throw myself into the match preparations. I stretch and run laps, then I suit up and get in one last diagnostic check from the Jays.

  “Will Sam come tonight?” I ask Malcolm.

  He shakes his head. “He’s still under observation, but he sends his regards.”

  I admit that I deflate a bit at this news. I wouldn’t mind having Sam on the bench, with his giant grin and his unsolicited advice. I’d even let him call me kiddo.

  “Time to go,” Malcolm tells me.

  We stride onto the elevator, and right as we pop up into the stadium, my gaze flies around the stands, darting this way and that in case another handful of putrid rice gets thrown at me. None of it comes, but I can’t help noticing that there are more empty seats than the last match, which makes no sense because this is Round 4 and Team USA is still in. Every chair ought to be filled at this point in the Games.

  I get a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  It’s because of the headlines, isn’t it?

  Some of those ticketholders didn’t want to cheer for a fighter like me.

  Bigots, the whole lot of them, I tell myself, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

  After the announcer has called out our names and countries, he lets everyone know that the final four at the ’63 Games marks a historic occasion—the first time we’ve had more than one female fighter this late in the competition and now that record has been smashed.

  And all of us are here tonight. Even Lidiya is up in the stands, sitting in the VIP section next to Khrushchev. She’s not even hiding the fact that she’s glaring knives in my direction, probably trying to get under my skin. I give her a hearty wave and blow her a kiss for good measure.

  There. Now I’m ready to go pound some metal.

  I bounce on my toes while we run through the usual proceedings. The speech from an IC member. The anthems. The customary handshake. I make sure to glimpse into Rushi’s cockpit as we shake. She’s looking pale, and I think it will work in my favor because she’s under the weather. I’ll admit that this isn’t my proudest moment. A bigger person would never think that way, but I guess I’ll never be a saint. I need a win here.

  “And here we go again, folks! Round Four!” the announcer says.

  We take our places, and the countdown begins, with the crowd joining in as we tick down to zero.

  I bite down on my mouth guard and race toward Rushi right out of the gate, like Peter recommended. I usually don’t go on the offensive this early, but I don’t want to be predictable. Plus, after the rice incident, I have enough pent-up energy to power ten Goliaths.

  Rushi tries to evade me, but I change trajectories and launch myself into the air. I move my arms and legs to form a flying kick, timing it so that my foot strikes her on the back. She lands on the ground hard, and I move to pin her and deliver the KO. I can hear the crowd grasp. If I can pull it off, this match will be one of the shortest in the Games’ history, but that gasp turns into a groan when Rushi twists out of my hold.

  “Zhu escapes at the very last second!” the announcer says.

  I hurtle my Goliath toward Rushi. This is a great start for me. I can’t let that make me overly confident, but I’m already thinking that I have the upper hand in terms of positioning and dominance.

  Now I have to put that to good use and catch up to Rushi.

  We play some cat and mouse, but strangely enough her usual speed isn’t on display. She’s still faster than the majority of fighters I’ve faced at the Games, but I manage to get close enough to unleash a few swipes, only for her to spin away at the last second, and we start the process all over again.

  Rushi scales up one side of the cage like a squirrel, and I can sense that she’s about to launch her aerial attack, but Malcolm has trained me for this moment. Reaching up, I grab her left heel like I practiced yesterday, clamping my fingers tight before using both hands to yank her off balance. I can almost hear Malcolm in my ear, shouting Throw your weight into it, rookie! And with one big tug from me, Rushi loses her grip and falls onto the ground, hard.

  This is my chance now. I remember to use tai sabaki and move my body in relation to hers, which gives me the ripe opportunity to pounce as soon as she tries to wobble to her feet. We grapple, our arms tangled, but she still has some life in her yet.

  Somehow she manages to launch herself into the air, dragging me along for the ride before she shakes me off with a swift scissor kick. Now I’m the one falling, but the people in the stands are marveling at the move because she did this all in midair. Some home team crowd, they are.

  Rushi has barely enough momentum to grasp on to the top of the cage with her fingertips just as I leap back onto my feet. She doesn’t let go though. She simply hangs there, with her mecha’s chest rising and falling rapidly, and I realize that she’s trying to catch her breath in the safest spot she can find.

  My eyes zero in on her. It’s now or never.

  I leap up to knock her down. The first attempt, she kicks me away. The second time, I don’t manage to get a firm enough grip. Right before I go for round three, I glimpse Malcolm back at our team’s bench, pacing like a lion, his eyes intent on me. He’s yelling something and there’s
no way I can hear him, but it’s clear what he wants. Eliminate her—now.

  Third time really is the charm. I hook my arms around her waist, and it’s only a matter of five or so seconds before she can’t keep her grip any longer. We both go careening downward, but I’m ready for the impact. As soon as I hit the ground, I move fast to flip her over and pin myself on top of her mecha. I expect her to try to wriggle free, but she’s practically deadweight. I can’t remember the last time I eliminated anyone with such little resistance. Either she has given up completely or she really is sick.

  The head ref calls the match, and I push myself off Rushi’s mecha with one arm in the air. It’s like a cork releases inside me, and all the emotions from the last twenty-four hours—from the press conference to the rice to this moment—shoot out of my mouth in a deafening shout. I let it all go with both of my arms in the air now because this victory is mine and none of those lowlifes can take it from me.

  Cameras flash and even Malcolm is clapping, and I tell myself to remember this moment because I’m really going to the finals.

  Almost as an afterthought, I look over to Rushi’s mecha. She fought with a lot of heart and I ought to shake her hand again, but she hasn’t gotten back up. Her mecha is still lying facedown on the ground.

  “Hey, you need a hand there?” I ask, walking over.

  I bend over to get a better glimpse into her cockpit, only to find her cheek covered with damp hair. Her eyes have rolled into the back of her head, and she’s convulsing.

  Just like Lukas. Just like Zoya.

  “Rushi!” I shout at her while I roll her mecha over onto its side. “Wake up!”

  This time, I don’t have to wait long for help to arrive.

  Two referees lift the gate to the pit, and the medical team comes rushing in fast. They push me away to circle around Rushi and get to work. Beyond the bars, the crowd has hushed, some of them pointing while others shield their children’s eyes from the sight.

  I scramble out of my Goliath and try to approach Rushi, but one of the medics blocks my path. So I stand there, feeling helpless and scared.

  Malcolm reaches my side. Taking me by the shoulder he grunts, “Let’s give them some space.”