“I thought Mao and Khrushchev weren’t chummy anymore.”
“They aren’t, but it appears they have a common enemy in this case.”
A common enemy—as in me.
“Could there be a chance that the Soviets pull out of the match last-minute?” I ask.
“I doubt it. Rumor has it that Khrushchev himself has overruled the possibility even though the USSR Mecha Fighting Federation had been considering it. You’ll have your shot at the championship tomorrow.”
I have to wrap my head around this—a world leader meddling in a sporting match? Usually they just come for the photo ops. “I didn’t realize that ol’ Nikita was such a fan.”
“I’m sure it’s all political. He doesn’t want to jeopardize the Vietnam treaty in any way.” He takes a long sip of coffee, scrutinizing me over the mug. “Consider yourself lucky that Khrushchev seems so intent on getting this Accord signed.”
His words knock the wind right out of me, but I have to clench my teeth and not let it show. There’s no use changing his mind. Somehow Malcolm really believes that I could’ve offed Lukas Sauer without a speck of remorse.
I’m no killer, but I’m sure ready to murder some metal right now.
We run through two training sessions, the first one in the morning and another one after lunch. Following that, Malcolm dismisses me for the rest of the day, but I insist on watching reels of Lidiya’s prior matches. Tomorrow will mark the biggest match of my career. Of my whole life, really. I’m not going to waste my time with napping.
I’ve gone through three of the reels when I stand up to stretch to get the blood moving through my legs. Malcolm and the Jays have departed for dinner, so I’m alone for now.
Until someone pokes his head in.
“Just the person I’ve been looking for.” Sam walks toward me in that easy way of his, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t even look like he was recently in the hospital.
Before I know it, I’m running toward him and flinging my arms around his neck. “Sam! When did you get discharged?”
“This morning actually.”
“And you stuck around,” I say, surprised. Some of the eliminated fighters will remain for the duration of the Games to attend the closing ceremony, but it isn’t a requirement. Plus, since Sam got beaten by Lidiya for a second time in a row, I doubt anyone would’ve blamed him for ducking out early to lick his wounds, least of all me.
“You really thought I’d leave and miss out on all the free dining hall food?” Sam’s mouth kicks up in one corner, but it’s far from his usual megawatt grin. And I’m pretty sure I know the reason why.
“I’m sorry about everything,” I say, solemn. “About the match. About what Lidiya did to you.”
He grimaces. “You win some, you lose some.”
“Right. Any given match day,” I reply, but both our sentiments ring hollow. You can use those excuses when you lose a regular high school game, but not here. Not at the Games. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sam’s Round 3 match has kept him awake every night, analyzing every move and mistake. I know that’s what I’d be doing in his shoes.
I better change the subject. “How’s your head feeling?”
He knocks a fist against his temple a couple times. “This old thing? I’m fine. Not the first concussion I’ve had. By the way, thanks for all the flowers and balloons you sent to my hospital room. Really sped up the recovery process.”
I flush because we both know that I didn’t send him a single thing. “I really wanted to visit you, but Malcolm said it wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Oh, you’re actually taking his advice now, hmm?”
I know he’s making a joke, but he does have a point. We’re teammates and the very least I could do was pop in for a quick Sorry about your concussion. “I acted like a dipstick.”
“At least you’ve finally admitted it.” That makes him smile, a genuine one this time. “I won’t rag on you too much though. You’ve had a busy forty-eight hours, judging by what I’ve seen on the news.”
My guard immediately goes up and I start talking fast. “The accusations aren’t true. I didn’t poison Rushi. I didn’t poison anyone.”
Sam arches a brow. “You think I’d come here if I thought you did?”
“You … believe me?”
“Aw, jeez. You might be stubborn and you might not listen to my advice, but you’re not a cheat. You’re too proud for that.”
I don’t realize how much I needed to hear him say that, and before I can stop myself, everything comes pouring out—about how I think I’m getting framed, about the vial discovered in my room, and about how Malcolm believes I’m 100 percent guilty. I know I’m talking way too fast, but Sam doesn’t ask me to slow down. When I’m finally finished, he whistles low.
“You’ve got every right to be hacked off,” he says.
“And I’ve got no clue who’s setting me up.”
Sam thinks this over but shakes his head in the end. “Your guess is as good as mine. My advice? Never be alone. Always have someone with you who can back up an alibi. And it might be a tall order, but you have to ignore the allegations. You’ve got a match to concentrate on.” He stops himself. “Has the IC made a decision on that yet? Will there be a game tomorrow?”
I nod. “They don’t have any evidence against me, so they don’t have a choice. Meaning I get to say hi to Lidiya in the pit.”
“Now that’s something I might be able to help with. Here.” Zipping open his bag, he grabs a black binder that’s nearly bursting with reams of paper, so thick that its binding looks ready to give up. He holds it out toward me, and I thumb through it curiously. Inside, I find sections for different countries, like Great Britain and Egypt and Brazil. There’s one for every nation that participated at these Games.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Research. Since I don’t need it anymore, I’m bestowing it upon you.” He looks a little pained to be handing this over to me though, like he’s giving up a childhood teddy bear. “Turn to the section on the USSR.”
I flip the pages until I reach the section dedicated to our beloved Russian friends. It’s further divided into two parts, one about Zoya and one about Lidiya, detailing their stats and their style of play and their past injuries. There’s also a few paragraphs about their favored moves.
This is a handwritten treasure trove of insider info. “Where’d you get this? From Malcolm?”
“Nah, it’s all mine. I always update my binders ahead of a tournament.”
I gawk up at him. “You compiled all of this?”
“I can’t take all the credit. I hired some translators who helped me too.”
“What did you need translators for?” I say with a frown.
“For the foreign newspapers and magazine articles mostly. That’s the best way to dig up dirt on international fighters—where they’ve gotten hurt, if there’s a pattern in their movements, and so on.”
I run a finger down the page and notice how some of the pen marks are more faded than the others. An image pops into my head of Sam hunched over a desk well into the night, poring over articles translated from Russian or Bulgarian, before jotting notes into his binder.
This must’ve been one of the keystones of his success. Sure, his strength and natural athleticism had a lot to do with it, but there are a lot of strong and athletic fighters out there. What helped set Sam apart was the dedication he put in outside the pit—by dissecting his opponents to the point of obsession.
I have to admit that I’m surprised—and far more impressed. Sam hadn’t relied solely on his physical prowess or his fancy training to get ahead. He’d been doing his homework all along.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask.
“A while.” He lifts a shoulder like this isn’t a big deal. “What can I say? I like to be prepared.”
That reminds me of something he did at the welcome banquet that we attended right after I arrived in Washington, before t
he Games officially began, when he went around casually asking about the other fighters’ injuries and whatnot. He’d called it educational.
“So that’s how you knew Giselle gets sloppy in the pit when she loses her cool.”
He grins, unable to hide his pride at that. “I picked up that tidbit from a French fighting magazine. Had to shell out fifty francs for the translation.”
“Those costs must’ve added up. Too bad your stepfather didn’t bankroll it.”
“Not to worry.” His grin slides ride off his face. “He chipped in some cash here and there. He really did want me to win the Games—it’d be good for business.”
He tries to hide his sentiment behind a layer of sarcasm, but I hear the pain in Sam’s voice. I recognize it myself. It’s how I sound after Dad tells me yet again, Don’t get delicate on me.
Sam and I—maybe we have more in common than I thought. I didn’t realize it before because he masks his hurt with his grins and no-sweat attitude. While I ignore mine, I guess.
No, that isn’t quite right. I release it in the pit.
“You look like you’re about to cry or murder someone,” Sam says.
I quickly wipe my face clean of emotion and get back to the matter at hand. “Does Lidiya have a weakness like Giselle’s?”
He laughs to himself. “If she did, I would’ve won my match against her, but hey, go over my notes if you think they’ll help.” Then his whole face becomes dead serious. “Just beat her, all right?”
I realize then why he has given me his binder. Maybe it’s partially out of loyalty for our team, but it’s more about Lidiya. He’ll do anything to stop her from winning the Games.
Sam shoulders his backpack but doesn’t leave yet. With narrowed eyes, he says, “You know, whoever planted that vial in your room would’ve needed a fighter’s badge to access the dorm.”
“I’ve thought about that, but badges can get lost. Or borrowed out.”
“But your badge only accesses the girls’ dormitory while mine only works on the boys’. That narrows your pool quite a bit.” He crosses his arms to think this over. “Which female fighter would benefit the most if you got tossed out of the Games for cheating?”
My mouth slips open. “You think Lidiya set me up?”
“She has had it out for you since the Parade of Nations,” Sam says, lifting a brow.
“But why would she poison her own boyfriend and sister too?”
Sam looks me directly in the eye. “To win the Games, why else?”
That is one serious accusation, but this is Lidiya we’re talking about. “Why didn’t she try to poison you though? You’re ranked second in the world.”
“Maybe it would’ve been too obvious if she did. Or maybe … maybe she had beaten me before so she figured she could do it again without any help.”
I have to take this in, but this could certainly fit Lidiya’s MO.
“I’d believe it, but try explaining this to anyone with no proof,” I lament. “I need a security bot to catch her in the act.”
Sam thinks on this a moment and asks, “I don’t have a security bot to lend you, but how about a camera one?” He fishes around in his backpack and presents the device to me, the same one he was using during the parade.
“I thought this was your brother’s.”
“I’m not giving it to you, kiddo. Do you even know how much this thing cost?” he says, his teasing trickling back into his voice. “Here, I’ll show you how to use it. If Lidiya or her henchmen try anything on you, you’ll have some proof.”
After about ten minutes of walking me through the bot’s functions and how to change out the videotapes, I’ve gotten a decent hang of the thing, and Sam hands it over to me completely.
“I don’t know how to thank you for this,” I say.
“Like I said, just beat Lidiya tomorrow. It’s only a small ask, right?”
“Minuscule.”
We share a smile, but mine fades quickly.
“You bring that title home,” Sam says.
“I will,” I promise him.
The hours tick by ahead of the finals. The sun goes down and pops up again, bringing with it searing temperatures and a sticky humidity thick enough to swat at with your fingers. It’s going to be a soupy mess of a day for the final matchup, but it’ll be one for the history books that’s for sure. For the first time ever, we’ll have a female winner of the Games. Either Lidiya or me.
My nerves wake me up before my alarm gets the chance. Everything is on the line. The title. Dad’s shop. Our apartment. No sponsor wants to touch me at this point so I can either go home with $500 or zilch.
Will we even have a place to go home to if I lose today?
I’m grateful that I’m kept on a tight schedule in the morning, giving me something to focus on. My matchup against Lidiya won’t start until three, but there’s plenty to do before then. One last warm-up. More reels to watch. A very short press conference where Malcolm has screened the questions beforehand so the press can’t ask about my mother.
Before I know it, it’s time for lunch, and I get a small pocket of time to rest before I have to go to the stadium, but it’s impossible to nap or even sit still. I decide to call the shop to hear Peter’s voice, but the phone rings and rings and rings. I hang up and try again, but no one answers.
Where in the world could they be? I’d have bet cash that Dad and Peter would be waiting by the receiver when I called, but now I’m wondering if our line got cut again on top of everything else.
I sigh and decide to thumb through Sam’s binder again. I’ve already studied all his notes on Lidiya, but I might as well reread them. Anything can help. Before I sit down at my desk though, I make sure that my door is locked and I check on the camera bot that Sam loaned me. I’d set it on the corner of my desk yesterday, propping it up so that it faces the door in case Lidiya or one of her cronies pay me a pregame visit. It might seem like an unglued thing for me to do, but I figure it’s better to be paranoid at this point than not paranoid enough.
There’s a knock on the door, making me jump. Maybe it’s housekeeping. “Who is it?”
A beat passes, and I wonder if I’d been hearing things. Then a small voice says, “It’s Rushi.”
I jerk the door open fast, and there she is. Her face looks thinner than before, even though it has only been a couple days since I saw her last. But it’s definitely Rushi standing there.
“Rushi!” I exclaim, and reach out to hug her. I must startle her because she shrinks back, but soon I feel her birdlike arms clasp around my shoulders. “I’ve been so worried, but what are you doing here? When did you get discharged?”
“Not long ago. I came to get my things. Envoy Yu packed for me, but she forgot these.” She motions at a box beside her feet, filled with a couple shirts and a kettle and a frame that shows a black-and-white photo of two girls. Rushi glances over her shoulder, looking worried. “I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone, but I wanted to say good luck.”
“R-really?” Now this is completely unexpected. I didn’t think I would see her again, considering she must be convinced that I poisoned her, and yet she came to wish me luck? “Whatever Envoy Yu said about me, I swear to you that it isn’t true.”
“It’s all right. Envoy Yu—” She has to take a breath to force out this next part. “Can be wrong sometimes.”
I could kiss her on the cheek. “It means a lot that you believe me.”
Rushi flushes at my words, and I gather she’s feeling bashful. “May I make you chrysanthemum tea? For luck?” She picks up the box, and I notice that she has a tin of tea leaves in there too.
I open my door wider. She’s really full of surprises today, and I wouldn’t mind some company before I head to the stadium. “Sure, come on in. I’ve got a little time.”
Rushi gets to work, filling the kettle with water from the sink before plugging it in. As she waits for it to boil, she gives the mugs a rinse and pats them dry with a small hand towel before she
asks me to grab the tin. I go to retrieve the tea, but I pause when I get a closer glimpse of the photo in Rushi’s frame. It’s Rushi standing next to a girl who looks a lot like her, only a couple years younger.
“This your sister?” I ask.
Rushi looks up, and her features soften. “Yes. Her name is Lisha.”
The kettle starts to whistle and she turns to switch it off. “Oh, I don’t have any sugar,” she says. “I think there’s some in the commons room.”
“I’ll go find it,” I offer.
Over in the kitchenette, I have to root through a couple cupboards and drawers before I locate a few packets of the stuff. By the time I return, Rushi has already poured the tea although it needs to steep.
I blow at the steam while we wait. “When do you head back to Beijing?”
“We fly tomorrow.”
“I bet Lisha can’t wait to see you.” I glance at the photo again. The two of them even wear their hair the same, in a neat braid down the back. I realize that I know which leg Rushi favors in the pit and how to best deflect one of her aerial strikes, but I don’t know much else about her at all, not the personal stuff anyway. She’d mentioned before that her mom had passed, but what about her father? Grandparents?
This is probably my last chance to get to know her a bit. “Do you have other siblings?”
“It’s only Lisha and me. Our parents—” She shakes her head and doesn’t say anything more about them, and my mind goes straight to the famine that Giselle had mentioned. Is that how Rushi lost her parents? That isn’t exactly something I can bring up though, and in any case, she lifts up her mug. “It’s ready.”
I frown at my cup because the liquid doesn’t look quite dark enough yet. “Is it?”
She nods and urges me to take a sip like we’re in a hurry.
“Hold on a sec, don’t you want sugar?” I say.
“Oh.” She seems to have forgotten all about it. “Yes, please.”
Rushi pours a packet into her mug while I tip in two for the extra sweetness. She proceeds to take a sip, so I figure it should be cool enough to take one too, but the liquid burns the tip of my tongue.
The Great Destroyers Page 23