“You sure she’s here for the Games?” I ask. The Chinese girl is tiny, barely five feet tall. And with her hair pulled back into a braid and not a speck of makeup on her face, she looks like she’s about Peter’s age. “She can’t be fourteen, can she?”
“As a matter of fact, she just had her birthday a few weeks ago,” the other Brit chimes in, in an accent so fancy that he ought to be holding a teacup with his pinkie sticking straight out. He introduces himself by his full name—all four parts of it. Fitz-Lloyd Foster Hughes III. I’m surprised that he isn’t wearing a hat with a feather in it. “In any case, it shouldn’t matter. Team China will likely get eliminated during the arena. They only squeaked into the Games because South Africa got the boot.”
That’s right. South Africa had initially qualified for the Games, but the IC declared that their team could only participate if they condemned apartheid. When the South African government refused, they were barred from the competition, meaning a slot opened up for the next qualifying nation, which happened to be China.
I peer at the Chinese team again. “Wonder why they’re keeping to themselves,” I say, noticing how the other Communists, like Lukas Sauer and the Bulgarians, haven’t invited the Chinese into their little circle.
“Oh, they were like that at the World Championships last year too. China and the USSR had a—how do you say it?” Giselle asks Sam. “A falling-in?”
“A falling-out,” Sam replies.
“Yes, a falling-out. The Chinese don’t consider the Soviets to be real Communists,” Giselle whispers to me, relishing the gossip.
“How do you mean?” I ask.
“Mao was a big admirer of Stalin.” Giselle makes a fist. “Because Stalin was strong and firm.” Then she slams her fist into her open palm. “And cruel. But Khrushchev is softer. He has overturned many of Stalin’s laws and has tried to make friends with the West. With your President Kennedy.”
“God forbid,” Sam says, laughing softly. “Ol’ Nikita has lost his way according to the Chinese.”
I guess I don’t see much of a difference—the Soviets and Chinese are both Communist, aren’t they? But it looks like this dispute between Mao and Khrushchev has already trickled down to the fighting pit, and it will end up hurting the Chinese team much more than the Soviets. The Federovas will have plenty of allies in the Purgatory round to cushion them from attack, but the Chinese will be on their own, which usually means that you’re doomed.
I’m thinking about the arena and what our own strategy should be when Giselle sidles up to me and gestures at Team China, in particular the female fighter who’s still trying out the hors d’oeuvres. Her plate is full of onion tarts and cut fruit, and now she picks up a wheat cracker topped with pâté from another service bot.
“Poor thing. I bet she hasn’t seen so much food in years.” Giselle’s voice drops to a whisper. “Because of the famine.”
I don’t understand. “Famine?”
“My uncle is a diplomat in Hong Kong, and he said that there has been a terrible famine in China. Millions dead.”
My mouth suddenly feels dry, and I have to force down my bite of mozzarella, which soon feels like a brick in my stomach. Why haven’t I heard of this famine before? Peter definitely would’ve mentioned it to me since he’s such a bookbuster. Or maybe Giselle is getting her numbers mixed up. “You’re sure? Millions?”
“My uncle would not lie,” she sniffs. “Mao is trying to cover it up. He says that it’s only a minor drought.”
I know I should look away, but now I can’t stop sneaking glances at Team China. Do they get enough to eat back home? Did they know anyone who died?
My thoughts are interrupted when the Ogler returns with Giselle’s drink. He notices that we’ve been talking about Team China and says with a smirk, “They must be looking for some Oriental food—rice with roasted dog.”
I go cold all over. Comments like his aren’t new to me. I’ve heard it all before—how the Chinese are dirty, how they’re taking jobs away, how San Francisco ought to send them back to where they came from, even though they’ve been in California for generations. Like my mom.
I’m tempted to grab his glass of club soda and pour it over his head.
Or wipe that grin off his face with a one-two punch.
But I have to tamp down that urge. Suppress it real deep. ’Cause I doubt I’ll get an endorsement if I take a swing at another fighter.
“Looks like lunch is starting,” I say, and march myself toward the tables before I do something I’ll regret.
Turns out, Team USA is at table 10, near the very middle of the banquet space. As soon as I find my seat, there’s a waiter scooting in my chair while a bot rolls over with a folded napkin. I’ve never eaten at a place so fancy before; growing up, we considered it a real treat whenever Dad took us to the Silver Diner and let us order the meat loaf special. I have to remind myself to keep my elbows off the table and to ask for the saltshaker instead of reaching across the table for it.
I’m sandwiched next to Sam to my right and to my left is Senator Appleby, who’s wearing a simple black shift dress that has been fancied up with pearls. I’m relieved that Malcolm has been seated at table 7 with a few other coaches because now I won’t have to play nice with him for the rest of the night.
Senator Appleby asks me about my flight and compliments Sam on his tux before she introduces us to the white-haired man sitting to her left.
“This is Minister Tran. He has recently been appointed by the South Vietnamese government as their minister of trade,” she explains. “He’s here in Washington to attend the signing of the Washington-Moscow Accord, but he made sure to arrive early to catch a few matches.”
“Wow, I didn’t realize that South Vietnam had made it into the Games,” I say.
Sam clears his throat and whispers to me, “They didn’t actually,” which makes my cheeks glow cherry red.
Minister Tran graciously takes my mistake in stride. “Perhaps one day. It’s a dream of mine to see my country qualify for the Pax Games.”
“I’m sure you’ll get there very soon,” Senator Appleby says, taking the basket of rolls and passing it on to him. “As I was telling you before, I would love to set up a few mecha fighting schools throughout South Vietnam. You have plenty of esterium, and I can search for funding to send a shipment of sports-grade Goliaths for your youth to use.”
That’s awfully generous of her, and I’m thinking I wouldn’t mind one of those mechas for myself if she could spare one.
Minister Tran’s eyes light up too. “That would be most welcome. My granddaughter is nine and learning how to fight, but she has been using an older Canadian model.”
I’m about to tell him that I was about her age when I first started the sport, but then a young woman taps the minister on the shoulder. She has a charming smile with dimples to boot, and she introduces herself as Envoy Yu of China.
“May we speak for a minute, Minister? I bring word from Ambassador Fang, who sends his regards,” she says.
Minister Tran, however, shifts uncomfortably. “Perhaps after lunch—”
“It would only take a minute, sir.” Her words are polite and her smile widens, but there’s a newfound iron in her voice, like she can’t take no for an answer.
“Minister Tran and I are a little busy at the moment, but maybe you can circle back later, Envoy Yu,” Senator Appleby cuts in, sensing the minister’s apprehension. “I see that General Westmoreland has arrived with his wife. Shall we go say hello, Minister? I know that he would be delighted to meet you.”
It’s clear that Senator Appleby is trying to give Envoy Yu the slip, but Envoy Yu follows them for a few steps before finally giving up.
I toss a glance at Sam. “Who would’ve thought that Minister Tran would be the life of the party?”
Sam sips at his iced tea. “I’m not shocked. Everyone’s trying to get chummy with him because they want to make a trade deal.”
“For the esterium,
I know.”
“Apparently the veins discovered in South Vietnam are completely untouched. Virgin mines.” He wags his brows at me when he says the word virgin, like he’s in the fifth grade. I roll my eyes. “It’s why Kennedy was so eager beaver to call for a truce to the war. Esterium makes the world go round, you know.”
There he goes again acting like a know-it-all when this is common information. But he has a point. It’s true that esterium veins are coveted worldwide. Here in the States, the federal government controls over half the mines in the Dakotas, but at some point, those are going to empty out. No wonder Senator Appleby was buttering up Minister Tran like a warm dinner roll. She wants those resources for the US, and she isn’t afraid to dangle free Goliaths to sweeten the pot.
“So what does Khrushchev get out of the treaty? You’d think that he would want those mines for himself,” I say.
“Hard to say. I’ve heard some of his advisers are urging him against the Accord for that very reason, but Khrushchev wants out of the war in Vietnam since he has funneled too much money into it already.”
I think the world is breathing a sigh of relief that the war will come to an end before it gets the chance to intensify. Peter might only be thirteen, but in five short years he’d be eligible for the draft.
Lunch begins in earnest, and a line of waiter bots brings out each course on silver trays, like something out of an Elizabeth Taylor movie. We start off with a chilled beet soup topped with crumbles of goat cheese, followed by a bitter salad that I don’t care for much, and then comes our choice of prime rib or New England lobster. I opt for the lobster because I’ve never had it before, and I make my dad proud by eating every single bite. I’m tempted to unzip my dress a little because it’s feeling awfully tight just as Sam dares me to finish off another bread roll and says, if I do it, he’ll go skinny dipping in the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool. He pouts when I tell him no thanks. I think he relishes the idea of scandalizing the tourists who might see him in his birthday suit.
The dessert course is soon served—a miniature white chocolate cake formed into the shape of the US Capitol, sitting in a pool of raspberry puree—and I’ve barely dug my spoon into my dome when the elevators pop open and a sudden hush spreads through the terrace.
Out step four men in stark black suits, followed closely behind by the Federova sisters, who split off in opposite directions. Zoya heads to the powder room while Lidiya strides up to the nearest service bot carrying champagne glasses. She promptly takes two, and I’m guessing that she must be saving one for somebody, but then she proceeds to down one and sips at the other.
Talk about making an entrance.
I set my napkin down on the table and get ready to stand up when Sam stops me.
“Don’t tell me that you’re going to talk to them,” he says, glaring knives at Lidiya.
“Malcolm said we had to be good hosts,” I reply. To be honest though, I want to satisfy my own curiosity and meet the most notorious fighters in the world. They’re on our turf, after all.
Sam grumbles something unintelligible under his breath but comes along with me for the ride, threading around the tables. I manage to intercept Zoya after she has reappeared from the powder room, and I introduce myself through her interpreter. The Federovas obviously know Sam already, but I’m an absolute stranger to them.
“I’m Jo Linden,” I tell her, and I add a little extra oomph to my voice when I say, “Newest member of Team USA.”
If Zoya is surprised by the news, she doesn’t show it. Her face remains as placid as a frozen lake while we shake hands. She’s uncharacteristically elegant for a mecha fighter, with her arms and legs as lithe as a dancer’s. I’ve heard that some Soviet fighters are trained in classical ballet, which may sound silly, but take a look at what a ballerina can do with their body and you’ll start to understand how it comes in handy. They’re limber and balanced and have the stamina of a rhinoceros. I’ll keep that in mind when I face her in the arena.
“Welcome to Washington,” I say, and Zoya thanks me with an obligatory smile.
We don’t even get that much effort from Lidiya.
“Hello, Lidiya,” Sam says. His easygoing tone is nowhere to be seen, and I imagine that he’s replaying their match at the World Championships last summer in his head.
He had fought beautifully for most of that game, all power and muscle, and he really seemed to have the upper hand because Lidiya was starting to look sluggish. About forty minutes in, she began to scale the bars of the cage and he had followed a step behind her, ready to yank her down for the kill, but then suddenly she reversed course. Dropping down a rung, she stomped on top of Sam’s head and knocked him clean off the bars. Down he fell, thirty feet in total, and as soon as he hit the ground, she was right on top of him, pinning him before he knew what hit him. To add insult to injury, even after the ref had declared her the winner, she’d refused Sam’s attempt at a friendly handshake. She had left him standing there in the pit, with his hand extended, while she strode away.
Lidiya doesn’t deign Sam with a hello or a wave in return. She yawns instead—and I’m pretty sure that it’s fake—which clearly gets under Sam’s skin because I notice a large vein pulsing on his forehead.
“It’s nice to meet you, Lidiya,” I say a little too loudly to get her attention. Her gaze finally flickers toward me before it flits to the plated desserts and fixes on them. I guess a plate of cake is more interesting than I am.
Sam gives me a look that seems to say, See what I told you? But I’m not finished with Lidiya just yet.
I angle my body so that she has no choice but to look at me. With a syrupy smile pinned onto my lips, I say, “Let us know if you need anything.”
Lidiya waits for the interpreter to translate before she thinks up a reply, which she delivers in English with her lips quirked on one side:
“You can polish the winner’s trophy for me.”
After my little exchange with Lidiya, I’m ready to make a beeline to the training center and punch some metal so hard that it flies into tomorrow, but my itinerary for the rest of the day is relentless. The luncheon stretches past three o’clock, and then I have to head to a short press conference, where Malcolm does most of the talking. I barely get to say that I’m looking forward to representing our country before I’m whisked off to a meet and greet with IC members, followed by a dinner with the coaching staff, and capped off with a moonlit bus tour of Washington with the other fighters.
By the time I’ve returned to the Pavilion, I’m about to fling myself in my dorm room and dive into bed before I remember that I’d promised Peter I’d call home.
Hauling myself onto my feet, I hurry down the hallway toward the common area on my floor, which has a single telephone. The dorm matron had given me a tour of the place earlier, in between the luncheon and the press conference, which didn’t take very long because the girls’ dormitory is small. There are three floors of bedrooms, with a total of twenty-four rooms, but the place is far from full because there are eleven female fighters in contention this year.
I’d hoped to make my call and slip into bed, but there’s a line for the phone even at this late hour. A Brazilian fighter is using it now, and the girl from Team China is queued up behind her, standing alongside another East Asian woman who looks familiar to me, but I can’t quite place her. They’re both holding mugs of tea.
“You’re Josephine, right? I’m Envoy Yu,” the East Asian woman says, turning toward me.
A light switches on in my memory and I recognize her now; she was the lady at the luncheon who tried to speak to Minister Tran. She looks to be in her midtwenties, with black hair that has been bobbed at the chin. I remember her dimples too, which appear whenever she smiles, which is frequently.
She continues. “I’m a member of the Chinese delegation, and this is Zhu Rushi, one of our fighters on the team.”
I shake both their hands, and I notice Rushi struggles to meet my eye, making me think that
she might be shy.
“It is pleasing to meet you,” Rushi says slowly, overenunciating each word.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Envoy Yu gently corrects her. To me, she says, “I’ve been helping Rushi with her English. We’ve had lessons every day since the Chairman approved her selection to the Games.” Her eyes positively glitter when she mentions the Chairman.
My guard goes up. After spending my life doing duck-and-cover drills at school and wondering when the Communists might attack, I’m on the defensive since there are two of them right in front of me. But Rushi is just a kid. And Envoy Yu seems more like an overexcited missionary who’s about to slide me a brochure on communism with Mao’s face on the cover. They seem pretty harmless.
Envoy Yu keeps making conversation while we wait for the phone. “I believe you’re in the room by ours. I’m in two-two-zero and Rushi is in two-two-one.”
“I’m in two-two-two,” I say, surprised. I’d figured that the dormitory was only for fighters, not coaches or staff or envoys. I could’ve misheard her though. “Did you say that you’re staying in two-two-zero?”
“Yes, our delegation thought this would be best due to Rushi’s young age and that this is her first time abroad,” Envoy Yu says, but I get the feeling there’s another reason she’s glued to Rushi’s side. The Chinese government probably wants to keep a close eye on their fighters to make sure that they don’t embarrass the Chairman. I wish I could ask Rushi what she thinks about having a nanny assigned to her, but her face is hard to read and partially obscured by the mug she’s sipping from, which gives off a sweet flowery scent.
Envoy Yu must notice me eyeing the cup because she’s quick to jump in again. “Would you like some tea? There’s fresh water in the kettle.” She nods at the little kitchenette in the room that features a sink, a two-burner stove, and a coffee-making bot that can mix in your preference of sugar and cream. “You can use some of our tea leaves.”
The Great Destroyers Page 9