Malcolm leans toward Sam. “You know the rules. Only fighters and coaching staff are allowed in the Pavilion, and we don’t need any stories coming out that you’ve been breaking the rules.” His eyes glide over toward the fence encircling the Pavilion, where I notice a few reporters filming television news segments. “So your friend here needs to scram.”
I draw in a sharp breath when I realize what he’s hinting at, and I immediately start shaking my head. “I’m not his friend,” I say loudly.
“Ouch,” Sam says, feigning a pained look.
Sam isn’t helping this situation at all, so I take it into my own hands. “I’m Jo Linden, sir,” I say to Malcolm, figuring that he’ll start apologizing as soon as he hears my name.
But I’ve assumed incorrectly.
Something does seem to click in Malcolm’s eyes, but the first words out of his mouth aren’t I’m sorry I assumed you were Sam’s arm candy. Instead he says, “You’re Rochester’s replacement. Didn’t recognize you from the picture in your file.”
I don’t know what picture or file he’s talking about, but he doesn’t explain further. He merely nods at the building across the quad, a hulking thing made out of gray cement, like a giant piece of sidewalk but with windows. “That’s the training center over there. Your new home for the next little while. So let’s get you suited up, rookie.”
I go stiff when I hear the word rookie come out of Malcolm’s mouth, but I’m only being paranoid because he’s already striding toward the training center and expecting us to follow.
Malcolm slows down a touch so that Sam and I can catch up. “I thought the two of you were supposed to get changed before you came back,” he says, not too happy with our getups.
If it had been up to me, I would’ve tossed this gingham dress off as soon as we were finished with the pictures, but we didn’t have time. “We came straight from the photo shoot, sir.”
“You can drop the sirs. Just call him Coach like I do,” Sam says to me with a wink before he slaps Malcolm on the shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Coach?”
“You know full well that it should be Coach Maines,” Malcolm grumbles, but I can tell that they have a rapport. After all, they’ve worked together for years. Amateur fighters typically spend the academic year representing our school teams, but if you’re elite enough (and rich enough), the summer months are reserved for national and international tourneys—all of which are invite only and the Association dictates the guest list. As soon as Sam turned fourteen and became eligible for senior-level competition, Malcolm tapped him to represent the US at the North American Invitational, which Sam went on to win soundly. They’ve done dozens of matches together since then.
“There’ll be uniforms in the locker rooms, but be quick about it. We’re running behind schedule as it is,” Malcolm says.
“Sure thing, Coach,” I say, but I’m thinking to myself, Gee, nice to meet you too. I’ve heard that he demands a lot out of his fighters, but I didn’t think he’d be so testy.
I sneak glances at him as we walk into the training center. Malcolm must be over thirty by now—I notice the crow’s feet stamped at the corners of his eyes—but to me and the rest of America, he’ll always be the youngest fighter in history to have won the Games, clocking in at fifteen years and fifteen days old. Even then he was already six-two and possessed that prized fighters’ build, broad-shouldered and lean, a Greek god of the sport. Prior to the Games, he had won three World Championships, twice at the junior level and once as a senior, and the ’47 Games was supposed to skyrocket him to new levels of fame.
But it ended up being the highpoint of his fighting career.
After Helsinki, he blew out a knee and then broke a collarbone, a string of bad luck that kept him out of serious competition for the rest of his amateur eligibility. There was some hope that he’d mount a comeback when he went pro at age eighteen. He even headlined matches from Macau to Monte Carlo, but he never really got his fire back. A few years and a few more surgeries later, he was forced into an early retirement.
I doubt anyone would’ve blamed Malcolm if he’d bummed around a sandy beach with beach bunnies after that, but he immediately jumped into coaching. He nabbed an assistant’s position on Team USA’s junior division, which oversees fighters ages ten to fourteen, and rose up the ranks from there. In his short career, he has racked up three Junior World Championships titles and three Senior ones, the most any American coach has gotten. All he’s missing is a victory at the Games, and he’ll cement his name in the history books—the first to win as a fighter and as a coach.
But he has one last shot to accomplish that. Four years ago in Montreal, he led our team to a silver medal, losing to the USSR (who else?) in the final round. So the ’63 Games will be Malcolm’s swan song. Another second-place finish might as well be last when the Association—heck, the entire country—expects nothing but first.
We venture deeper into the training center, passing by weight rooms and dry saunas and an infirmary, and my eyes go wide as I take it all in. Small floor-waxing bots, no bigger than a shoebox, polish the linoleum to a shine. Another bot greets me inside the women’s locker room, a boxy laundering machine the size of an oven that can wash, dry, and fold your used towel. It’s top of the line too, judging by its shiny sleek frame. I’m betting the Association has spared no expense to make an impression on our international visitors—especially the Reds. As if to say, Look at all this money we have, thanks to fabulous capitalism!
I change into my training uniform—a snug white top and black pants. A patch of the American flag has been stitched onto my sleeve, but the corners are already lifting up, like it’s been hastily sewn on. I frown, disappointed. I was hoping to wear something more polished and official-looking. Something with a little more red, white, and blue.
I sigh and start moving again, taking the exit that leads directly into the training room. Well, room isn’t the right word for it. The space is massive, as big as a football stadium, and divided into twenty-five equal sections for each team. The size is so overwhelming that I have to consult a map to find where Team USA is located, which appears to be on the opposite corner of where I’m standing.
To get there I feel like I’m walking through the United Nations, striding past Canada and Mexico, Australia and Japan, Egypt and Brazil. Each section has been blocked off with portable partitions that soar over twenty feet high, which teams can later reconfigure to create a bigger space as others get eliminated. The partitions are thick enough that there’s no way to see through them, but up ahead at Team China’s section I notice a slight gap between two walls that haven’t been lined up correctly. Out of curiosity, I slow down to take a little peek inside.
Last year in my World Events class, I had to write a report on modern China, and I try to remember what I had put in it. China hasn’t appeared at the Games since 1927. That same year, a civil war broke out across their country, pitting the Communists against the Nationalists. The conflict stretched over two decades, and when the dust finally settled in ’49, it was Chairman Mao and his Commies who were the victors. They had completely obliterated the Nationalists, rounding them all up before they could flee to Taiwan and putting them in “reeducation” camps that had little to do with learning, unless you count the lesson to never disagree with the Communist Party.
With Chairman Mao at the helm, the Chinese put up a big KEEP OUT sign to all Westerners and isolated themselves for a decade and a half, like a gigantic silkworm. But recently they’ve decided to poke their heads out again. They qualified for the Games a couple months back, and here they are now in Washington, DC, one more Communist country on American soil. That must be why I spot a pair of intimidating security guards strolling up and down this aisle in particular, keeping a close eye on them.
Through the gap in the partition, I spot a Chinese fighter maneuvering a cherry-red mecha. I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. The fighter is warming up in a caged training pit, and I’m about to move o
n, when he suddenly breaks into a run, launches into a cartwheel, and curls into a perfect cannonball flip before landing neatly like an Olympic gymnast.
“Holy smokes,” I whisper. I’ve never seen a fighter do that before. None of the newspaper polls have Team China making it out of Round 1, but maybe the Chinese will surprise us.
By the time I reach the training section for Team USA, I bet I’ve trekked over half a mile. There’s a little confusion at the door since I don’t have my badge yet, so the security guard posted there refuses me entry. I keep telling him that I’m Jo Linden, Ted’s replacement, but he assumes that I’m one of Sam’s rabid paper shakers and won’t let me in. Eventually Malcolm has to intervene to get me inside, but not before I overpronounce my name to the guard so that he won’t make the same mistake again.
I pause to get my bearings. I’ve stepped into a big square of a room, with a line of storage lockers along the back wall that hold tools and spare equipment and rows of esterium batteries that must’ve cost tens of thousands of dollars. There are two training pits side by side in front of me, each one the standard-size cube but made out of titanium versus the steel ones I’m used to. I’m itching to suit up and climb into the pit, but Malcolm stops me.
He frowns at my outfit. “You’re not wearing a team uniform.”
“But this is what I found in my locker, sir. I mean, Coach.”
Malcolm calls over his assistants, three middle-aged white men whose names all coincidentally begin with J. There’s a John and a Jimmy and a Joe, all of them around the same age and height too, and I decide to think of them as the Jays.
“We can’t have her walking around like this,” Malcolm says to them. “She looks like she walked out of some middle school tournament.”
I feel my cheeks flame, even though this isn’t my fault.
“Sorry about that, boss, but we had to special order her uniform and it won’t arrive until tomorrow. We didn’t have any in stock,” one of the Jays replies.
“This is Team USA. Everywhere she goes she’ll be representing the country,” Malcolm says, and I find myself nodding along and thinking maybe he isn’t as much of a grouch as I’d initially thought. Until he adds, “She’s looking like some second-rate fighter out of Albania.”
I look down at myself. What’s that supposed to mean?
“Get this sorted out, all right? And where’s that report on the Federovas I asked for?” Malcolm barks to the Jays. “And as for you, Linden, go get suited up.”
“Yes, Coach,” I say. My mood improves significantly as my eyes land on a brand-new Goliath that’s calling my name, all polished up and top of the line. It’s a mirror of the one used during the photo shoot, except this time I’ll actually be able to try it out.
I approach the Goliath with my spine tingling. One of the Jays wheels a ladder toward me, but I won’t need it. I’ve had more than enough practice climbing into cockpits—the trick is to slot your fingers in the hip joint and hoist yourself up. In under five seconds flat, I’ve already scaled the thing and slipped inside it.
“Do you need a hand in there?” a Jay calls up. “We weren’t told what specific models you’ve used before so—”
“I’ll be all right, but thanks!” I get to work strapping my arms and legs into place. As soon as the Goliath gets powered up, I lift the right leg to take a step, and I practically leap forward, forcing the assistants to careen out of the way.
“Whoa there. Easy, girl,” I say to the Goliath, giddy with power. My mecha back home is so old that I have to exaggerate my movements to get it going, but this one? It mimics even the smallest of motions, like how its chest puffs in and out along with my breaths. It’s that sensitive.
It’s also very light due to its fancy titanium frame. This will take a little time to get used to since I’ve spent years training in steel Goliaths, but I’m already thinking about how much higher I’ll be able to jump and how much faster I’ll be able to run. A new rush of adrenaline pumps through me as I consider the possibilities.
I step into the empty training pit and figure Malcolm will join me soon enough. He’s occupied with Sam at the moment, who’s hanging from the top of his cage and swinging from bar to bar. One of the Jays comes over to lead me through a simple warm-up, and after we’re finished, I run through a few exercises of my own to work out the kinks in my muscles after being stuck on a plane overnight. I focus on some martial art moves like the simple hiza geri, a Japanese-style knee strike, and the more complicated ushiro geri, a combination back kick that my karate teacher, Michael, particularly favored. If only he could see me now. Right after I’d worked my way up to a brown belt, he joined the Marines for the better pay, but he died during the ’58 Lebanon Crisis. It wasn’t from hostile fire or anything like that; he and his buddy had gone out for a swim and drowned. But I think of him every time I use one of the stances he taught me.
I’ve worked up a decent sweat by the time I’m done, but Malcolm still hasn’t come over to my pit. Instead, he sends one of the Jays—I think it’s John—to spar with me, which I do gladly because I want to give this mecha a proper go. John surprises me with his speed and strength, but his stamina is limited. I give him the run around inside the pit, using the strategy that Dad has instilled in me from day one, letting him try to catch me and burning up his energy.
When he starts struggling for breath, I strike. I employ the handy ushiro geri, nailing him square in the chest and sending him careening backward before I pounce. I press my Goliath over his, count to five, and that’s the match. I couldn’t have planned it better myself. It’s excellent fighting. I doubt even my dad would have many notes to give me.
But when I get onto my feet and glance over at Malcolm, he isn’t looking my way. I don’t think he has caught my scrimmage at all because he’s lecturing Sam and using a handheld chalkboard to map out strategies.
My jaw clenches. I’m used to getting heckled in the pit.
I’m not used to getting ignored.
I march myself across the room. I know that he’s Malcolm Maines, an American legend. I also know that he’s my new coach and that I should make a good impression. But if I can fly across the country and come to training on barely any asleep, can’t he spare a little time to actually coach me?
“Just finished up the scrimmage,” I say to Malcolm, trying hard to mask the irritation in my voice. “I won by the way.”
“Good. Great. What time is it anyway?” Malcolm says, distracted. His face shifts when one of the Jays alerts him that it’s nearly eleven. “We better get going.”
“Go where?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“To the luncheon. Didn’t you read your folder?” Malcolm says with a frown. Behind him, I see Sam trying not to laugh, and I wish he were standing closer so I could drive an elbow into his gut.
“What luncheon?” I ask, throwing my hands up in the air. My Goliath mimics me, which makes the move even more dramatic.
Sam coughs to cover up his chuckle. “It’s the welcome luncheon for the fighters, along with their coaches and ambassadors and other fancy-pants sort of people. The International Committee hosts it,” he says, referring to the governing body of the Games that has over thirty members. The full name of the organization is the International Committee of the Pax Games, or the IC for short, and its main duties include choosing the host cities, overseeing the qualification tournaments, and evidently hosting unnecessary luncheons.
“We have to cut our session short to attend some stuffy banquet?” The question goes flying out of my mouth, which causes Malcolm’s frown to deepen, and I wish I could snatch it back. My dad has always said that my mouth will get me in trouble, and here I am about to screw up the Games before I even get in the ring.
“Attendance is mandatory. Senator Appleby has made that clear,” Malcolm says brusquely. He cuts a look at Sam. “Not a drop of alcohol today. I’ve heard that the CEO of Baron’s will be there.”
“I’ll be a choir boy, Coach,” Sam says before
his eyes brighten, like he has remembered something. Turning to me he adds, “I could introduce you to Mr. Francis if you want. Weren’t you asking me earlier about getting an endorsement? I bet Baron’s would be interested since they’re launching a ladies’ line of sneakers.”
My face turns red. Sam might think that he’s helping me out, but now I look like some money-grubbing opportunist in front of Malcolm. It isn’t like I want to shill toothpaste or boxes of fruit punch or ladies’ sneakers in this case.
“Malcolm always has to vet potential deals,” Sam explains to me. He doesn’t seem to notice the sour look on our coach’s face, like he’s smelling curdled milk. “The sponsors have to go through him to comply with all those long and boring rules for amateur fighters.”
“I do indeed. Why don’t you let me take over from here?” Malcolm says dryly, then dismisses Sam to get showered and changed. He waits until I’ve climbed out of the Goliath before he continues. “Joining this team is an honor. Not some opportunity to rake in the cash.”
My cheeks burn hotter than before. I could skewer Sam for putting me in this position, but since he isn’t within strangling distance, I round my shoulders and nod. “You don’t have to worry, Coach. I’m here to fight.”
“So you asked Sam about sponsorships because …”
I know I don’t have anything to be ashamed about, but that doesn’t stop the blood from rushing into my face. Malcolm has barely met me, so how am I supposed to launch into my family’s sob story about unpaid bills and eviction notices? I don’t want him to see me as a charity case, especially compared to Sam, who probably slept in a solid gold cradle as a baby.
“Saving up for college,” I tell him, which sounds like a decent excuse. But then I think about Sam and his endorsements with Baron’s and who knows what else, and yet he doesn’t seem to have gotten the third degree. “If Sam can have sponsors, why can’t I too?”
The Great Destroyers Page 7