The Combat Codes

by Alexander Darwin

  The jackal boy stared Dozer down, “Shut up, Dozer. Don’t interrupt me. And you won’t be getting a patron anytime soon.”

  Dozer looked down at the floor. “But, Shiar…”

  “As I was saying, we need to welcome Cego to our crew, especially because he’s been so kind as to volunteer his piss pot skills for us,” Shiar said.

  “I say, why don’t we further our welcome to Cego and let him take on his new task tonight? After all, I am especially stuffed after polishing off all those cans of greens.” Shiar licked his lips. “Dozer, why don’t you start off with that famed stench of yours and head over to the pot?”

  Dozer clapped his hands together and headed for the adjacent bathroom, glaring at Cego as he lumbered past. Shiar moved closer to Cego and hissed in his ear, “Don’t think I couldn’t see you let go of that rope on purpose. You won’t find any pity here, lacklight.”

  A few others boys made their moves to the chamber pot after Dozer. The scar-faced boy, Knees, smirked as he brushed passed Cego. “You be deepshittin’ it now.”

  Shiar was the last to go and returned with a small wire brush, which he offered to Cego. “The pot is almost overflowing out there. I think more than half of it is Dozer’s. You’ll need to make sure it gets emptied out in the drain and then made sparkling clean with that brush. The dawnshift guard is quite the stickler, so make sure you get every spot in there.”

  Several of the crew laughed in glee. Dozer thudded his hands against the metal bunk post.

  Cego didn’t take the brush. He kept his hands down by his sides.

  Cego knew fighting techniques, ways of movement, breathing, energy conservation, but never had he been taught how to deal with other boys like this.

  As if on cue, the old master’s voice spoke to Cego. You may need to give up position to gain position. Don’t be afraid to retreat, give in, let your opponent dictate your pace for a moment. Then, when they think they are in control, use momentum to your advantage.

  Cego looked Shiar in the eye for a moment and then with lightning speed snatched the little brush from his hand. Shiar flinched but laughed it off.

  Cego took on the task, emptying and cleaning the pot with the tiny brush. He was surprised at how difficult it was to hold his breath while trying to scrub out every stain on the chamber pot. By the time he was done, his arms felt weak and he saw white spots from the lack of air.

  Cego returned to the bunk. The rest of the boys appeared to be sleeping soundly.

  He found a spot in the corner of the room and curled up on the cold stone floor, adjacent to the littlest boy’s cot. He quickly found out why the rest of the crew called the boy Weep—he was shuddering with sobs, trying to be silent with a tattered sheet pulled up over his face.

  Cego forced his eyes shut, trying to fall asleep as he listened to the boy cry.

  3

  Momentum

  A Grievar shall not accumulate land, wealth, servants, or worldly possessions beyond what is necessary for survival. In the act of relinquishing all but dedication to martial prowess, a Grievar will become unburdened, free to attack and defend without hesitation.

  Seventh Precept of the Combat Codes

  Green luminescence shimmered on Cego’s skin as he swam through the water. He cut through the waves effortlessly, feeling them swell and pass beneath him, setting their course to whip up on some distant shore.

  A swarm of leathery-skinned bats skimmed the water beside him, careening like dive-bombers from above to snatch at the plankton that foamed all around him. The glowing swath of plankton continued far out into the distance, providing Cego a shimmering path to swim along.

  About ten yards ahead of Cego, another figure was swimming along the same path, a dark silhouette thrashing through the waves. Cego tried to push his pace to catch up to the figure, but every time he swam faster, the silhouette also sped up to maintain the gap between them.

  Cego attempted to find his rhythm—a steady pace of exertion that the old master stressed no matter what the physical exercise was. Whether fighting, running, climbing, or swimming, it needed to be efficient.

  Cego’s feet, hands, and body twisted through the current in unison, each stroke feeding off the previous one’s energy, his breath timed to every movement.

  Cego didn’t think about the murky depths around him. Beyond the glowing path of plankton, darkness was everywhere. Above him, the sky was as black and as unfathomable as the depths below. Cego followed his rhythm and swam.

  Suddenly, he heard a scream. The figure ahead of him had disappeared from the surface of the water.

  Cego dove beneath the waves and tried to swim toward the sinking body. He felt the water resisting him, though; it became viscous, pushing back against his efforts. Every stroke Cego took, the liquid became thicker, congealing around his limbs.

  Cego gurgled as the liquid pulled him down. He desperately tried to swim toward the sinking figure, but he wasn’t moving. The liquid wrapped around Cego’s body, slithering into his mouth and ears, choking him and blotting out his vision. He sank into the darkness.

  Down in the inky depths, Cego could see a pinprick of light shining atop the wavering surface of the water. The wisp of light was hovering, as if observing him from above.

  *

  Cego awoke again in the cold, sterile bunk in the Underground.

  He thought about the little wisp that used to visit him in his cell. He hadn’t seen the thing since he’d arrived at the Crew Nine bunks. He missed the one-sided conversations with the wisp—his new bunkmates were not nearly as good listeners.

  The other boys roused as the old guard entered the room, rattling their bed frames as he went by. “Time to get at it, you snivelers.” He shook Weep’s post particularly violently.

  The man tossed each boy a can stuffed with fighting greens. Cego popped the lid, turning his head to avoid the noxious smell.

  The guard caught Cego’s reaction from the corner of his eye. “Don’t think you aren’t darkin’ lucky, with yer own cots and food in yer belly every morning. Go out to the dregs, see them cleaver addicts, their lightless spawn. Babies sucklin’ blood from their mam’s tit. You’ll see how lucky you are.”

  The boys were hungry after another cold night and they dug into the greens with a lifeless vigor. Dozer finished first, throwing the can against the wall across from his bunk. The large boy pulled his drawstring pants up and let out a beefy burp. “Can’t wait to get outside today and show ’em what I’ve got.” He feigned a few punches at an imaginary opponent.

  “You won’t be havin’ a patron pick you up with punches like those,” Knees, the boy with the scar, taunted as he picked up Dozer’s empty can and tossed it back at him.

  Dozer knocked the can to the ground. “Yeah, right, and you’re gonna get one by losing all your fights, huh, Venturian?”

  “Just one fight and that kid be outweighin’ me by thirty. He be like you, all vat-beefed up, no skill. Just sittin’ on me,” Knees said.

  “Who cares; you lost. Patrons gonna see that. While you are still playing in that yard every day, I’ll be on my way to the Lyceum. I’m gonna be a Knight someday,” Dozer said.

  Knees guffawed, nearly choking on his greens.

  Dozer’s face reddened. “What?! What makes you think I won’t make it into the Lyceum?”

  “When I be thinkin’ Grievar Knight, you definitely don’t pop. Maybe some patron be pickin’ you up at a discount.” Knees smirked.

  Dozer stiffened up and was beginning to move toward Knees when the old guard came back into the room. “Save your fights for the Circle. Now get to the yard; I hear Tasker Ozark’s gonna have you doing something special today.” The guard chuckled ominously.

  Cego pulled his pants on and waited for his turn to shave his head with the razor the boys were passing around. Thaloo required all the boys fully shaved every morning to display the flux brand on each of their scalps.

  Cego had discovered that each brand displayed a boy’s bit-pric
e. Patrons watching the fights could easily determine if the kids were worth buying. If a boy won his fights handily, his price would increase and the flux brand would reflect that. Cego’s brand displayed zero currently; all of his previous fights had only ensured he was hearty enough to assign a Tasker to.

  The crew began to walk in formation behind the guard out toward the yard. Shiar gave Cego an impish stare as he pushed past him to the front of the formation. Currently, Shiar was on top of the crew’s rankings. Dozer wasn’t far behind him.

  Listening to Crew Nine talk during their breaks, Cego had attempted to understand the purpose of it all.

  Thaloo had acquired the boys through a number of unscrupulous means. Knees and Dozer had been bought at a bargain price from some hawkers trying to unload their wares before going Upworld. Weep had been grabbed fresh from a lacklight orphanage right after both of his parents had died from the Cimmerian Shade. Some of the boys like Cego were simply picked up off the streets.

  Shiar, as he incessantly reminded everyone, had been the son of a purelight family that had fallen on hard times. Cego gathered they’d been forced to sell their property along with some of their children, Shiar included.

  After purchase, Thaloo put the boys through fight acclimation—a period of cost-efficient training to increase his product’s value. Men like Tasker Ozark were hired to facilitate the training and were promised a small cut of successful sales.

  Thaloo then showcased the young Grievar in his Circle, letting them fight while potential patrons watched and bid on them. Patrons liked to buy Grievar at a young age to instill loyalty in them.

  Though Cego was starting to understand this strange Underground world, he knew he had much to learn.

  The crew arrived at the yard where Tasker Ozark waited for them, his face drawn into the same perpetual frown. “Well, let’s get you scumlings at it. Time to ramp it up. Few of you have got fights coming up and I want you winning. You winning means I win. Means Thaloo wins.”

  Ozark directed his gaze at Cego. “You lose, though… and you’re not gonna last. Thaloo will have you chewed up and spat out, no time. Back on the streets where the Cimmerian Shade can take you.”

  Here at Thaloo’s, the training was mostly drills made to harden the boys for their fights. They weren’t taught techniques or skills for any long-term development. Thaloo had short-term sale in mind for most of his assets.

  Ozark shouted at the crew to do fifty pushups, his metallic voice scraping against the yard’s stone walls. He had them do dog crawls, running on all fours around the perimeter of the room until their legs couldn’t hold out. Next, it was sloth carries again, where one boy had to hoist another boy onto his shoulders and run until he fell to his knees.

  Every once and a while, Ozark would have them shadowbox or show him a round kick to measure progress. The gaunt man enjoyed watching the boys fall over as they tried to spin around on a misguided kick. He didn’t give them any advice; he laughed at them, a hyena-like wheeze.

  Cego knew the old master had taught him real technique, the tiniest movements that made a world of difference. How power in either a punch or kick came from the hips. How to generate leverage. How to use his opponent’s momentum to his benefit.

  Cego had been staying quiet for the past few days, cleaning out piss pots and doing whatever else was required of him. The crew had continued to make things difficult for him along the way, stealing his food, reporting his disobedience to Ozark, throwing sneaky elbows at him during their training in the yard.

  He knew it was almost time to use that momentum. Cego needed to show strength when he entered the Circle.

  *

  Cego’s first fight on Circle Crew Nine came fast. Tasker Ozark wanted to test him as soon as possible to see how much he’d be worth.

  He had rings under his eyes from the long hours training in the yard, and his body felt stiff from sleeping on the hard stone floor every night. The rest of Crew Nine stared Cego down as he walked out of the bunk.

  Ozark led him out toward the Circle den with the rest of the crew trailing behind. “Don’t start off on the wrong foot today, scumling. Losers stay losers,” the gaunt man warned him.

  They entered the large den at the center of Thaloo’s compound. Though Cego had already fought there several times, the place was different with his eyes open.

  The room around him was a blur of chaos. People were sitting along the bar, shouting, looking up at dozens of flashing lightboards. Men and women stood around the perimeter of the Circle, clanking their glasses against each other, pounding their hands on the railing, barking in a variety of languages Cego did not understand.

  The floor smelled like rotten ale. Foul smoke wafted to the ceiling from lit pipes. At the back of the room, vat meats were smoking on a heat pad, lending another acrid smell to the stale air.

  Cego could hardly breathe and he hadn’t even started moving yet. He attempted to calm himself as they walked to the edge of the Circle, expelling the air from his lungs as the old master had taught him. He couldn’t do it, though. He kept breathing in, the air getting tighter in his chest.

  Ozark shoved him forward into the steel Circle, which was pulsing now.

  He saw his opponent across from him. The boy was about Cego’s size, maybe a few inches taller, with a scrunched-up nose and inset eyes. Cego could see the brand on his head, his bit-price reflecting several fights he’d already won in this Circle. The boy’s Tasker was at his side, whispering in his ear.

  A large lightboard flashed to life above the Circle. There was a lifelike image of Cego and his opponent up there along with a series of fluctuating numbers he couldn’t focus on. Cego could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Could his opponent see that? He tried to take another deep breath unsuccessfully.

  Why was he fighting at Thaloo’s? Is this why the old master had trained him so diligently—to fight in a den for a bunch of drunken Deep folk? To get bought by some patron and serve out the rest of his days in their servitude? It didn’t make any sense to Cego; his head was spinning.

  Suddenly, the array set above the Circle flared to life as a swarm of wisps clustered around it—they called them spectrals.

  Cego could feel the light immediately. It streamed into his golden eyes and grew warm on the surface of his skin. It was like nothing he’d experienced before. The chaos around him dissipated into silence as if a soundproof bubble had enveloped the Circle.

  He could breathe—the trapped air flowed from his lungs. Cego drank the air, bringing it in through his nose, letting it settle in every inch of his body, running up his spine, relaxing in his shoulders, tingling in his fingertips and toes.

  As Cego’s breath and heartbeat settled, the world around him slowed. He saw his opponent clearly on the other side of the Circle. No one else was in the room, just two boys standing across from one another. Everything felt right. His past, his stiff body, the troubles with his crew, Tasker Ozark—they all seemed unimportant now.

  The other boy was lumbering toward him. Why was he moving so slowly? Cego stood perfectly still, not even worried about his opponent closing in on him.

  Finally, the boy was in front of Cego, swinging at his head with a clubbing right hand. Cego easily slipped the punch.

  He could see the unsure expression on the boy’s face, the sweat droplets on his brow, the fear in his citrine-tinged eyes as he moved forward. The boy threw another looping punch. This time, Cego caught the arm at the elbow and moved in on the boy with a quick step, wrapping his arms around him and hugging him tightly. He circled his leg behind the boy’s knee and took him to the floor.

  Cego was on top of the boy, rearing up to punch him.

  “Put ’is head through the dirt!” someone in the crowd screamed.

  The crowd was screaming for blood, slamming their hands against the metal railing. They wanted to see him beat the life out of the boy. Cego knew that the bloodier and more vicious a finish, the louder their approval would be.


  Cego could feel Tasker Ozark’s eyes on him, urging him to put on a show of dominance. Winning in spectacular fashion would mean pushing his bit-price higher and selling to a patron faster.

  He could sense Crew Nine watching from the sidelines. Cego could make an example of his opponent and show jackals like Shiar what would happen if they messed with him. He could make Dozer and Knees respect him.

  Cego wanted to please the crowd. He wanted to put on a show and teach the boy beneath him a lesson for being weak. He could feel the crowd’s energy within him, tendrils of anger urging him to pummel his opponent until he was a lifeless husk.

  True fear is often masked by strength and true strength is often mistaken for fear. The old master’s voice rang above the crowd’s clamor.

  Cego saw the fear in the boy’s eyes beneath him. They reminded him of Weep’s teary eyes, shivering on the rope that dusklight. He could feel the fear in the crowd around him. They yelled for blood because they were also scared; unsure of the path they followed.

  Cego realized he was afraid too—that’s why he wanted to please the crowd, his crew, his Tasker.

  He snapped out of the trance.

  Instead of raining punches down on his opponent, Cego slapped the side of the boy’s head with both hands, cuffing him on the side of the ears.

  The boy panicked, trying to turn away from the open-handed strikes. Cego loosened his hips slightly and let the boy beneath him turn. He pinned the boy on his stomach. He’d want a quick finish, without humiliation.

  Cego thrust his hips down, pushing the boy into the dirt. He snaked one of his arms under the boy’s chin, grasping around his neck. Mata leão—the Lion Killer. This boy was hardly a lion, but Cego squeezed until he felt the boy stop struggling. He’d be awake in less than a minute, without a scratch on his face.

  Cego stood up, the boy’s limp body lying prone on the floor. He could feel the spectral light shining down on him, even brighter now. He wondered if the little spectral that had visited him every day in his cell was up there in the mass of pulsing light.