The Great Destroyers

by Caroline Tung Richmond

  “A near miss! These two are clearly evenly matched,” the announcer says.

  The game drags on, and the announcer’s words prove true. Sam is stronger and possesses more stamina while Lidiya is faster and more ruthless. Put them together, and it’s a match for the ages.

  “Save up that energy, Sam,” I hear Malcolm murmur next to me.

  Twenty minutes pass, then ten more, and they’re still going full steam. But another ten minutes pass by, and I start to notice signs of them flagging. Sam is breathing heavily while Lidiya has lost her trademark zip. They’re both moving slower and pausing longer between scraps, trying to find a few seconds here and there to rest. It’s a war of attrition at this point, waiting for one of them to trip up out of exhaustion, but Sam does seem to have the advantage. That boy is an ox, and I can tell he has more gas left in the tank.

  Now it’s a matter of how he’ll use it.

  Sam decides to go on the offensive and gives chase. To escape him, Lidiya takes to the bars again. She swings across them one by one, and Sam has nearly caught up to her when she unexpectedly misses a rung and down she goes thirty feet. It’s a fall that fighters like us make all the time, and our mechas are engineered to absorb the shock of the impact—if you land upright. But Lidiya falls awkwardly. I can tell she tries to correct her positioning in the air, but she doesn’t do it fast enough, and I wince when she hits, shoulder first, followed by her head. Everyone around me gasps.

  “Federova goes down! We’ll see if she’s hurt or if she shakes this off,” the announcer says.

  We watch and wait for her to get up—her mecha and helmet should’ve protected her skull—but she lays limp. From my line of sight I see Premier Khrushchev go white and start murmuring to the First Lady, but there’s nothing they can do. Not even the leader of the gigantic USSR can call a match. Those are the rules. Either a fighter forfeits or they get eliminated.

  Sam knows this, of course.

  He also knows that Lidiya is darn sneaky, and this could be another one of her tricks.

  He circles her carefully, but she doesn’t twitch. The medics start to gather their supplies and move toward the entrance gate, but they have to wait there until the match is officially called.

  “Careful there,” I whisper as Sam considers his next steps.

  Sam moves around Lidiya’s Vostok, assessing what would be the best angle to pin her in case she decides to rejoin the land of the living. He seems to have decided on the smartest and safest angle, positioning his knees over her legs to restrict her movement while holding her arms down with his hands.

  And suddenly Lidiya rears up.

  The announcer yelps, and I do the same on the bench. Malcolm is shouting something to Sam, but I doubt Sam can hear him.

  My heart is stuttering, and I think it might stop completely at what I witness next—Lidiya kicks a leg free and aims her foot square at Sam’s face. His neck snaps back, and while he’s dazed, she punches his mecha and punches it again, titanium against titanium, and I swear she must’ve dented Sam’s cockpit. She flattens him on the ground, and even though Sam tries valiantly to shove her away, she holds on.

  “Sam!” I scream. “Get her off!”

  The referee counts down the time. Sam only has a few seconds to turn this around, but then the ref reaches five and it’s all over.

  Lidiya stands up, pumping her arms into the air. She’d been playing dead all along, probably smirking the whole time too. The Khrushchevs are on their feet, clapping and beaming, but every American in the stadium is stunned.

  There goes their golden boy.

  Eliminated in Round 3.

  Lidiya isn’t done yet with her victory lap though. As soon as she emerges from her Vostok, she strides out of the cage and grabs a microphone from one of the refs. Her gaze roams to find me.

  “This was for Zoya!” she cries, acting like the rift between the two of them never existed.

  I grit my teeth and start moving toward her, but Malcolm holds me back.

  “Take a seat,” he orders me.

  “Did you see what she did?” I spit out.

  “I said take a seat,” he growls.

  But I have the crowd behind me at least. They’re booing Lidiya loudly, and some of them start throwing their popcorn and drinks at her until her coaches try to escort her out. But it’s obvious that she doesn’t want to leave. She’s shouting up at the stands, which isn’t the smartest idea when you’re on the away team and you’ve played your match dirtier than a pig in a mud bath.

  After the Soviets finally wrangle Lidiya onto the elevator, I notice Sam finally emerging from his cockpit. I figure he hadn’t come out sooner because he didn’t want to face the crowd after a loss like this, but he’s holding his head and swaying a bit.

  “I think he’s hurt!” I say to Malcolm, pointing at Sam. Come to think of it, Lidiya really did hammer his Goliath hard. Maybe when she dented the cockpit, the blow affected Sam too.

  Or maybe what happened to Lukas and Zoya is happening all over again.

  “Stay here,” Malcolm tells me again. “I’ll take care of this.”

  I don’t listen to him though. I’m following a step behind, trying to get to Sam as fast as I can, but then I trip and go down hard on my knee. By the time I find my footing there’s a trio of reporters surrounding me, shoving little microphones into my face and tossing out questions.

  “Your comments about the match, Jo?”

  “What are your thoughts on Lidiya’s tactics against Sam?”

  “Now that you’re the only American fighter left, what is your strategy moving forward?”

  My breath hitches because that last question slams into me like a Federova punch. The thought didn’t truly hit me until now, but with Sam eliminated, I’m what’s left of Team USA.

  I’m the last American standing.

  I don’t sleep well that night. The air-conditioning has turned my room into an icebox, but when I open the window to warm myself, it ends up feeling like a swamp. I alternate between sweating and shivering before I give up on sleeping altogether and stare at the ceiling for a while.

  I think about Sam. I tried to see how he was doing after the match, but the security guards wouldn’t let me into the boys’ locker room, and shortly after, I watched the medics wheel him off on a stretcher to an awaiting ambulance. Malcolm told me that Sam needed to be further evaluated, although he should be fine, but his injuries were serious enough to bring him to the hospital.

  Around six in the morning, I drag myself out of my bed because my alarm is about to go off anyway. And I have to get ready for my next training session. We’re down to the final four now—Lidiya, Albie, Rushi, and me. Three dark horses and the reigning World Champion.

  I’m only one match away from the finals, and for a moment, I imagine myself on the winner’s podium, my head held high with the crowd going wild. I’ll hoist up that trophy that’s almost as tall as me, the first female fighter to ever claim it. All the work I’ve put in, all the naysayers I’ve had to ignore, it’ll all be worth it.

  Then there’s that prize money and the endorsement deals. My family and I would be set. Not for life, but for a good while—enough to pay the rent without worrying and save up for Peter to go to college. Enough to banish the worry we’ve felt every time we’ve lost a customer to Rocket Boys down the street.

  I change into my training kit and get ready for the long day ahead. The dormitory is as still as a powered-down Goliath as I exit my room and lock the door behind me. I’m about to pass the commons area when I hear muffled crying.

  I pause to find Rushi on the phone, her back turned so she doesn’t see me. She’s speaking into the receiver in Mandarin, so I don’t know what she’s saying, except when she murmurs something that sounds like mama. She sounds upset.

  No, that isn’t right.

  She sounds distressed.

  I try to back away silently just as Rushi hangs up the phone. She swivels around, and I notice the puffiness aro
und her eyes.

  Both of us freeze. I start to apologize while Rushi stands up and accidentally knocks over her mug of tea. The contents form a little lake on the floor, and I’d be a real jerk to leave now, so I grab a hand towel from the kitchenette.

  “No, I can do that,” she insists.

  “I don’t mind,” I say, sopping up the tea. “Everything okay?”

  She sniffs and hiccups a little and focuses on picking up the small dried flowers that were in her mug, each one the size of a nickel. I grab one near my foot, and it smells light and fresh, like summertime.

  Just like that, a memory floats up in my head. I’ve seen these flowers before, a long, long time ago.

  I can see my mother sitting at our old kitchen table, stirring sugar into a mug of tea that looks and smells a lot like Rushi’s. Mom’s belly is round—she must’ve been pregnant with Peter at the time—but that doesn’t stop me from trying to climb onto her lap and ask for some of the sugar. She doesn’t push me off though. She lets me bounce on her leg and eat a pinch of the sweet stuff while she untangles the knots in my hair with her fingertips.

  I blink at this ghost from my past. I don’t recognize my mother in that memory. She wasn’t yelling or crying or curled up in bed. She actually seemed to like me.

  I hold the little flower in my palm. “What sort of tea is this?”

  Rushi startles a bit. “I’m not sure how to say it in English. Chry—” She frowns. “Chrys—”

  “Chrysanthemum?”

  Rushi nods, and my mind wanders back to my mother and then—of all places—to Old Wen. The last time I saw him, he said that my mom used to tote me around like a doll when I was a baby. I hadn’t believed him, but now I’m starting to wonder. How could the mother that I remember and the one that Old Wen knew be the same person?

  We’ve almost finished cleaning the spill when I pick up something that looks like a clear crystal. I have no idea where this thing came from when Rushi offers an explanation.

  “Rock sugar,” she says. She makes a stirring motion, like she’s holding a spoon. “You melt it into the tea.”

  I wonder if my mom knew that trick. I’m guessing not since she used regular sugar in hers.

  “This was my mother’s favorite tea,” Rushi goes on as she picks up the last chrysanthemum blossom off the floor.

  “Is that who you were talking to on the phone? Your mom?”

  “My meimei. My little sister.” Her voice warms at that mention, and I’m guessing that they must be close. “Our mother is … She passed away years ago.”

  “Mine too,” I mumble.

  Our eyes meet again, and I can’t help but look at her differently. We’re both part of the same terrible club. The Dead Mothers Society or whatever you want to call it. It’s not a group that anyone wants to join, but when you do come across another member, you know that you have the same scars that no one else can see. You can’t help but feel this kinship.

  Because of that, I think about telling Rushi that my mom was Chinese too. I don’t know if she’d even believe me if I told her that, but Malcolm’s warning replays in my head. I get the impulse to rebel against that though. I’ve never taken orders from anyone before, so why start now?

  But then I think about the sponsorship money, and Malcolm gets his wish. I stay quiet.

  “Rushi?”

  Both of us turn to find Envoy Yu standing in the doorframe. Judging by her tousled hair, it looks like she has just woken up, but her eyes are unusually sharp for this early in the morning. She speaks to Rushi in Mandarin, and Rushi stammers a reply.

  “It wasn’t Rushi’s fault,” I say to Envoy Yu and hold up the mug. “I was walking by the commons room and I noticed her—” I’m about to say talking on the phone, but Rushi’s eyes shoot wide like a rabbit in the crosshairs, and I get the feeling that she wasn’t supposed to be calling home. I quickly search for something else to say. “Uh, I noticed her making tea, and when I asked her what kind it was, I must’ve startled her and she dropped the cup.”

  Envoy Yu eyes me quizzically, but she seems to accept the explanation. “I hope she wasn’t disturbing you?”

  “No, not at all,” I say. My own gaze slinks toward Rushi, who’s looking relieved, but then her shoulders slump as soon as Envoy Yu starts talking.

  “Come on, you clumsy thing. We have a busy morning,” Envoy Yu says to Rushi. Her tone switches back to her usual sweetness, but it seems a bit too syrupy to me.

  The two of them retreat to Rushi’s room while I head downstairs to the dining hall for breakfast, feeling grateful that I don’t have a chaperone breathing down my neck every minute of the day.

  But I do happen to have one inside the training pit.

  Malcolm waits for me there, with a day’s growth of stubble along his jaw. I’ve got a hunch he slept as badly as I did.

  “How’s Sam doing?” I ask before he can tell me that I’m a minute late.

  “Concussed,” Malcolm says, rubbing his tired eyes. “The doctors are keeping an eye on him today and will evaluate him again tomorrow. He should make a full recovery though.”

  But Sam’s pride will take longer to heal. He put years of training and work to get to the Games. He was the top-ranked American and was called our next great hope—and he didn’t even get a chance to fight for a medal. If I were him, I’d take some of his family’s green and hide out in the Swiss Alps for the rest of the summer. At least he could nurse his wounds with a great view.

  My heart pangs as I glance over at Sam’s training pit. I’ve gotten so used to seeing him there, either sparring with one of the Jays or tossing a smart-alecky comment my way, but now it’s strange to find it empty. As much as he could get on my nerves, at least he knew how to lighten the mood. Make me laugh, even if it was accompanied with an eye roll. Dare I admit that I miss him?

  “Can I see Sam?” I ask Malcolm. I’m not sure what Sam and I are at this point. Teammates? Not anymore. Friends? Not quite, yet we aren’t rivals either. And it doesn’t feel right not to pay him a visit.

  “Maybe later on. Now isn’t the right time. You’ll only remind him of what he’s lost.”

  Malcolm sure has a way of giving me a one-two punch with his words alone, but for once, I appreciate the honesty. It’s probably best for me to give Sam some time to deal with the bitter disappointment of losing. And not to mention the anger.

  Nobody wants to go out like he did.

  I’m reminded all over again of what happened last night at the stadium. “What Lidiya did yesterday was—”

  “Legal,” Malcolm says gruffly.

  “In my book, I’d call it downright sleazy.”

  “Sleazy is how she operates, and it’s how she’s going to win this whole thing unless someone stops her.”

  “I’m up for the challenge.”

  “Let’s hope so,” he says, not sounding very certain. He walks over to the television set. “Now let’s find out who’ll you’ll be facing next.”

  We watch the bracket broadcast. Just like the last time, the IC makes a big deal out of it, showing clips from the previous round of matches and playing short videos about the countries that the remaining fighters represent. Then they get to the finale, and Malcolm is already pacing.

  Lidiya will take on Albie at 3 p.m. tomorrow.

  Following that, for the seven o’clock slot, it’ll be Rushi against me.

  I draw in a long breath. That’s the Round 4 lineup.

  Relief hits me first. This means that I won’t have to fight Lidiya yet, at least not this go-around. But then comes a sense of unease. It isn’t that I’m scared of Rushi—I’m not. She might have a mean aerial attack, but on paper, I’ll have the advantage. I’m older and more experienced. I also saved her neck in Purgatory.

  But I like her.

  It won’t be fun trying to beat her.

  “What are you waiting for? Go get warmed up already,” Malcolm says, hands on hips and sounding testy.

  I go through my stretches,
followed by a jog around the training center, which has become a ghost town. There are only three nations left in the building—the US, the UK, and China—because the Soviets have packed up their gear and moved to another site. Lidiya should be grateful for that because we won’t get to cross paths, and I have a real bone to pick with her. And it’s the size of a femur. She humiliated Sam on American soil. My soil. And where I come from, we don’t have to climb inside the pit to take care of that sort of thing.

  I go and get situated in my Goliath, strapping myself in and buckling my helmet. That’s all run-of-the-mill stuff. But what’s completely out of the ordinary is that Malcolm suits up right next to me.

  “You’ll need a sparring partner,” he says by way of explanation. “So let’s go, rookie.”

  I can’t believe he’s serious. “You sure you want to do this, old man?”

  There must be a full moon tonight because Malcolm actually smiles at me. Well, scratch that. It’s more like the corners of his mouth twitch for a second.

  The Jays open the training pit gate, and Malcolm lets me head inside first. A thrill shivers down my back. Malcolm might be grouchy and sour most of the time, but he’s still Malcolm Maines, the American legend. He might be over thirty now, but he still maneuvers his Goliath like it’s a part of him, a second skin.

  “Let’s run drills first,” Malcolm says, dampening my mood. I thought we’d be sparring right now, but he’s intent on giving his lesson. “I’ve been watching reels most of the night. She’s very quick on her feet and spontaneous too, like fighting a ball of lightning.”

  “So how do you propose that I beat her?”

  “Keep her grounded. Don’t let her start backflipping and cartwheeling around you, and definitely stop her from launching one of her aerial strikes.”

  “Easy peasy,” I mumble. I’ve only got a day and half to perfect this, but I’ll make it work.

  He ignores that. “First step? Tail her as much as possible. I’m betting she’ll try to scale up the cage and get airborne as soon as possible—it’s a seventy percent probability based on her prior matches—so you have to prevent that from happening. Try this.”