The Great Destroyers

by Caroline Tung Richmond

  “You mean, I should celebrate the fact that you tried to sink me in the arena?”

  She chuckles and offers me her bottle. “It wasn’t personal. Come now. Let’s leave the game in the pit and have some wine.”

  I push the bottle back toward her. “Maybe that’s how you do things over in Paris, but here in the States we don’t have drinks with so-called allies who stab us in the back.”

  Giselle only looks amused and takes a long sip of wine. “We’re all trying to win, aren’t we?”

  Like I need the reminder.

  A car honks at us from the road. Glancing up I see Sam hanging out the window of a red Thunderbird, a stunner of a sports car. “Wanna bite to eat, kiddo?”

  “Sure thing,” I reply, not bothering to say goodbye to Giselle before I hustle over to the vehicle. It’s a real beauty with a rounded hood and bright chrome running from the front to the razor-sharp tailfins, looking as sleek as a dolphin rising out of the water. “Where did you get these wheels, Kealey? It has Washington State plates.”

  He nods as I get in. “I drove it here from home.”

  “You drove this across the country?”

  “Why not? Eisenhower paid for all those new interstate highways, so I was only trying to see where our tax dollars got spent.” He steps on the gas, and the ride is as smooth as butter.

  “It seems like an awfully long way to get to the Games though.”

  “I had the time. Besides, there were a few stops that I wanted to see along the way,” he says vaguely. He nods at a paper bag near my feet. “You like crab cakes? They make them fresh over at this fish market by the wharf.”

  I wouldn’t know if I like crab cakes or not since they’re a whole lot pricier than our usual ground beef, which I can get for forty-three cents a pound on sale. “I guess I’ll find out. Where are we going?”

  “A little south of here. Ever been to Hains Point?”

  I’ve never even heard of it, but it’s within easy walking distance of the Pavilion if you head to the very tip of the island. Sam parks the car, and we sit down at a picnic table overlooking the Potomac, which surrounds us on three sides. It’s quiet out here—if I shut my eyes, I would never guess that I was sitting in our nation’s capital. The city feels miles away. It’s a real switch from the pressure cooker of Purgatory, and suddenly I’m back at the stadium and inside my Goliath, sweating and running and jumping out of the Communists’ grasp.

  I shake my head to clear it of the memory. “Any word on Lukas yet?”

  “Last I heard he was taken to the hospital for treatment.” Sam begins to unpack the food, laying the spread out on the table. Crab cakes. Coleslaw. Piping hot french fries, slick with oil. Lemonade to wash it all down. I’m tempted to bury my face in it because I’m starved.

  “What do you think happened to him?” I ask while I push a few fries into my mouth, not even bothering with the ketchup because I’m too impatient.

  “No clue.” Sam hands me a few napkins and a fork and motions for me to dig in. “I’ve never seen that in the pit before.”

  “Me neither.” And I’ve seen my share of injuries. Dislocations. Concussions. Fractures. “Maybe it was the stadium lights.”

  “Or bad luck, I guess. We’ll have to wait and see if he’ll be able to fight in the next round.”

  “I wonder who he’ll be up against. When does the Association announce the bracket?” I ask around a mouthful of crab cake.

  “Take it easy there. You’re gonna choke,” Sam says, watching me eat in amazement. “The announcement is tomorrow morning.”

  I scowl and drag a fry through his dollop of ketchup. To ratchet up the tension in between rounds, the IC randomly selects the lineup for each match. Basically, they print our names onto slips of paper and toss them all into a glass cube, which gets swirled around. Then they pick out the papers two by two, and that’ll be the bracket for the next round, meaning I could be facing Lidiya or Lukas. Or even Sam. The whole thing is simultaneously broadcast on television and over the radio to drive up ratings.

  I stare out at the water and swat at the gnats congregating around my face, considering who I want to face in the pit. The final sixteen includes the usual suspects. The Federovas and Lukas. Sam, Giselle, and Albie. Gunter from West Germany. A Czech and both Yugoslavians. A Canuck and an Aussie. Then there are the surprises. Me. Rushi. A fighter from Iran, another from Japan.

  “Who would you want to go up against in Round Two?” he asks.

  “Maybe Lazarescu of Romania,” I say. My chances would be better against her since she squeaked through Purgatory on account of her more experienced allies. “Or maybe the tall guy from West Germany.”

  “Gunter? That’s an interesting choice.”

  “He tried to look down my dress at the luncheon.”

  Sam gets that aha moment in his eyes. “I’d pay to see what you’d do to him in the pit. So what did your folks think about the arena? Did they come out to see it?”

  “Nope, but my dad and brother watched it back in San Francisco.”

  “What about your mom? Is she in sunny California too?”

  I take a sip of lemonade. “More like six feet under.”

  Sam gags on his bite of crab cake and starts coughing so badly that I give his back a couple smacks. “Jeez, Jo. You trying to kill me before the next match?”

  “Sorry,” I say, feeling a little guilty because his pretty face is all red now.

  “I’ll survive, but I can’t say the same for my lungs.” Sam clears his throat when his coughing finally subsides, regarding me differently. “Sorry about your mom though.”

  “Don’t be.”

  His left brow arches. “Family feud?”

  “Let’s say she was no June Cleaver,” I say. I don’t really want to get into this, and not because of Malcolm’s warning to avoid speaking about my mother, but because I’ve always hated the pity that people get in their eyes when they learn that she’s dead.

  “How old were you when she passed?” he asks.

  “Four and a half.” I swig some more lemonade and add, “Do me a favor and don’t ask me how she died.”

  “And risk you clocking me in the nose? It’s none of my business anyway.” He chuckles to himself. “I don’t mind it so much when people ask me how my old man died. That’s better than having them think that my stepfather is my real dad.”

  I remember how tense Sam got when I made that mistake before the parade. It sure sounds like his stepdad is no Ward Cleaver either. “So how old were you when he died?”

  “Zero. My mom was pregnant when his ship was attacked. It sank somewhere off Iwo Jima.” His voice has gone flat, and he’s staring out at the river, watching the waves bob along.

  I wonder if his dad went down with the ship. That happened sometimes during the war, and the boats would sink so deep there was no way to retrieve the bodies. I’m about to tell him that he has my condolences, but he has already wiped his face clean of emotion and takes a big bite of food.

  I glance at him with fresh eyes. Before I arrived in Washington I’d thought that I had a good read on Sam Kealey, with his money and his confidence and his irritatingly perfect record, but now I’m starting to question how much of the real Sam I actually know. For instance, why is he here with me instead of back at the Pavilion partying with the others? Or out with his family?

  “Say, where are your brothers? I figured you’d all be out celebrating right about now,” I ask.

  “They wanted to, but their dad dragged them off to some fancy shindig downtown. Apparently Gunter’s family is throwing it. They own a bot manufacturing plant in Dusseldorf that Boeing might try to buy out.” His face sours. “My stepdad wanted me to make an appearance.”

  Wow. His own stepfather is milking the Games to further his business ventures? It sounds downright mercenary. I shake my head. Rich people.

  Sam sighs and finishes off his last french fry. “What’s the verdict, kiddo? Did you like the crab cakes or not?”
r />   In reply, I show him my empty plate. “My name isn’t kiddo, you know.”

  “I know, I know, but it’s fitting,” he says, reaching out to ruffle my hair, but I duck away. “When we first met a year ago, you really did look like a kid in your Goliath.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I don’t say it as a bad thing. Only that you’re on the younger side. Want me to call you youngster instead?”

  I screw up my face. “Only if I can call you geezer.”

  Sam lets out a bright laugh, and then we pack up and make our way back to the Pavilion, where he drops me off first since he has to find a parking spot. The quad is a different place than how we’d left it not even an hour ago. A few wine bottles lay on the grass, but the music has been shut off. Most of the fighters are gone too, and I figure that the staff must’ve told everyone to clear out. I’m not complaining though. After I call home and give Peter an update, I plan on taking a nice long nap.

  Right then, I notice a few black cars entering through the Pavilion’s gate and depositing their passengers onto the pebbled path. A couple of security guards step out first, followed by Lidiya, who’s still wearing her uniform from the match. Truth be told, she looks like a wreck. Pieces of her hair have tumbled from her carefully pinned bun, and her face is streaked red. She’s storming toward the dormitory, when something in her eyes shift, like a predator locking on prey.

  She starts talking in rapid Russian, and she changes direction to march over to me. “What did you do?” she says in English, her breaths heavy, her throat raw.

  I stare right back, wondering if this is one of her “dramatic” episodes that she’s known for. “You’re in my way,” I say, trying to sidestep her.

  She blocks me. “What did you do to Lukas?” Then she grabs me by the shoulders, shaking them, and tears are coming out of her eyes and I don’t think this is an act, but then again this is Lidiya Federova we’re talking about.

  I manage to twist away and get ready to take a swing, but her security goons pull her back. They drag her into the girls’ dormitory, and I’m left there on the sidewalk, panting and full of adrenaline that I don’t know what to do with.

  What the heck was that about?

  “There you are.” I hear a voice behind me, and I turn around to find Malcolm striding toward me. “I’ve been looking for you and Sam.”

  “Did you see what Lidiya did?” I ask, furious. I explain how she had turned into some shrieking banshee, but Malcolm doesn’t frown or flinch.

  “She’s clearly upset” is all he says.

  “Upset? She grabbed me! Isn’t that against some rule?”

  “Probably, but I doubt the IC would exact any punishment considering the circumstances.”

  I’m about to say that the IC can’t be playing favorites, but then his voice goes strangely soft.

  “There’s no use sugarcoating the news so here it is,” he says grimly. “Lukas Sauer is dead.”

  As soon as Sam returns from parking his Thunderbird, Malcolm sits us both down on a secluded bench on the far side of the quad to give us the details.

  “The news isn’t public yet, but it has already circulated among the coaches and fighters,” he starts off. “It appears that Lukas had multiple seizures that eventually led to a heart attack. The East Germans are insisting on an autopsy, but it seems like he had epilepsy as a child, which may have something to do with the death.”

  I have about a hundred questions rushing through my head, but I stay quiet, too stunned to ask them. Fighters can die in the pit—we all know that going in. Back in the twenties and thirties, when the sport wasn’t as regulated, it was common to lose a couple fighters per international tournament. But those numbers have plummeted after the Games picked up again in ’47 because the organizers added more rigorous safety measures, like testing each mecha before every match. So Lukas’s death is still quite the shock.

  “His epilepsy came back somehow?” Sam asks, confused.

  “We don’t know that. I’m only telling you what I’ve been told,” Malcolm replies. “As far as I know, this was a terrible accident.”

  Accident being the key word here.

  “Can you relay that to Lidiya? Because she obviously thinks I had something to do with this,” I say.

  “She could’ve been looking to blow off steam and you were the first target she saw,” Sam offers.

  “But she blamed me for the fire too,” I remind him. “That’s twice now she has pointed fingers at me.”

  “The case about the possible arson was dropped,” Malcolm cuts in. “Let’s not get paranoid here.”

  “I’m not being—”

  “I’ll deal with Lidiya and her antics. You have to focus on what’s ahead,” says Malcolm, clearly eager to move on from this. “The Games are still on, and I meant it when I told you two earlier that you’re supposed to rest for the remainder of the day. I want you giving those muscles a break and getting plenty of sleep. Is that understood?”

  Sam and I nod before going our separate ways to our dormitories. I fall into bed without changing, keeping my eyes open because whenever I close them I’m back in Purgatory and I’m staring at Lukas’s face. He was alive only a few hours ago. How old was he—seventeen, eighteen? I might not have been a fan of his, but all I can think about is how he’s returning home in a coffin.

  And that reminds me all over again how very dangerous this game can be.

  * * *

  I wake up sore and aching the following morning, but I bolt out of bed and propel myself back to the training center after I’ve gobbled down a bowl of plain oatmeal, a couple of boiled eggs, and a whole green apple, which is tart enough to make my lips pucker. The dining hall is also serving battercakes smothered in orange marmalade and crispy sausage links, but I force myself to forgo the heavy stuff for now. I’ve got a long day of training ahead to prepare for Round 2, but first I have to find out who I’ll be fighting.

  When I get to the training center at eight, there’s an eerie feeling in the air. With thirty-four fighters eliminated yesterday, the place feels mostly empty now and our ranks will only continue to thin out. In our training section, the Jays are overseeing a work crew that’s taking down the partition that used to divide us from Team Switzerland, whose fighters both got cut in Purgatory yesterday. Malcolm has already set up a television set in our new acquisition of space—a top-of-the-line Bush model with shiny silver knobs—along with a few folding chairs. A service bot rolls up to us to offer coffee and tea that’s stored in its interior tanks, but I’m too anxious to risk holding a cup of hot liquid.

  “The broadcast is about to start,” Malcolm says, motioning at Sam and me to gather by the screen. He fiddles with the knobs and flips through the channels until he lands on the right one.

  The broadcast kicks off with a message from the IC expressing condolences to Lukas’s family and the whole East German delegation, followed by a three-minute recap of what happened in Purgatory before they get down to business. The setup is cheesy, mimicking the look of a game show. Various members of the IC gather around a big glass cube that sits on a pedestal, filled with exactly sixteen slips of paper. But they don’t do the picking. No, they’ve hired a blond model to dip her hand into the glass and grab two slips at random.

  “The first match pairing is …” The blond opens up the folded paper. “Zhu Rushi of China against …” She unfurls the second. “Archibald McDaniel of Canada!”

  The IC folks claps politely although there’s no reason for it before they move on to the next pairing.

  “Next we have …” The model pauses to read the name. “Samuel Kealey of the US.” She looks up at the camera, like she can see Sam watching her, and grins. “Up against … Mihaela Lazarescu of Romania!”

  Sam’s shoulders relax, looking relieved.

  “You lucky dog,” I tell him, trying not to sound too jealous. Lazarescu has the makings to become a formidable opponent, but she’s still a couple years off from that point.
>
  “Now we have Mirko Jankovic of Yugoslavia going up against …” The model opens the next slip of paper and her jaw tightens. “Lukas Sauer of East Germany.” It looks like she’s reading from a prompter now. “Due to the international rule book, Jankovic of Yugoslavia now has a bye to the next round.”

  There are no alternates as soon as Round 1 begins. There are no exceptions even if your mother dies back home. Even if you die. No fighter can take your place.

  The blond titters, like she’s unsure of what to do next, until someone prompts her off-screen to continue. She grabs the next piece of paper.

  “Josephine Linden of the US will face …”

  I tense up and I swear it takes the girl a full half hour to get my opponent’s paper unfolded. “Giselle Boucher of France.”

  I bark out a laugh. I’ll be facing Giselle? She’s number seven in the world, nothing like fighting Mihaela Lazarescu.

  I guess we might as well finish what we got started in Purgatory yesterday.

  And it only gets worse from there.

  After the pairings are firmed up, the IC assigns us our game times. Sam gets the plum slot of six p.m. on Tuesday, meaning he gets forty-eight hours of rest. Me, on the other hand? I’ll be facing Giselle at the earliest game to kick off Round 2 at ten tomorrow morning.

  In a little over twenty-four hours, I’ll be back in the pit, so I can’t count on the recovery time to get me back into tip-top shape. I’ll have to grit through it though because it’s the Games and there’s a schedule to keep up. Round 2 will stretch over tomorrow and the day after, whittling our numbers from sixteen to eight. Round 3 will take place on Thursday, halving the group to four. Then Round 4 will take place on Saturday to select the top two fighters, and finally Round 5 will close out the Games on Sunday night. It’s ten days from start to finish—a whirlwind of punches and KOs until we’ve crowned a new world victor.