The Combat Codes

by Alexander Darwin

  He squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “Let’s get back to training,” Cego said, though his voice wavered as the words came out of his mouth.

  *

  Cego awoke. He’d been choked unconscious before, numerous times in Farmer’s capable hands. Though he knew he’d only been out for a minute or two, it always felt like a lifetime.

  The darkness faded from the edges of Cego’s vision as the world slowly came back into view. He was lying on the floor in the yard.

  Cego could see the boys were still standing in a circle with two fighting at the center. Weep was in there again, this time fighting Shiar. Tasker Ozark stood on the sidelines, yelling for Shiar to go for the finish.

  “Don’t let go of the choke.”

  The Tasker had ordered Weep to finish Cego.

  Cego was alive, though. If Weep hadn’t let go of the choke, he would be dead. Weep must have disobeyed Ozark’s orders, which was why he was still fighting. This time, he was up against Shiar, who Ozark knew would show no mercy.

  Cego saw Weep fall to the dirt, Shiar easily tossing the smaller boy to the ground. The spectral was gone and Weep looked like he’d lost the glimmer in his eyes along with it. The little boy had nothing left.

  Cego tried to stand up. He would help Weep, no matter what happened. He wouldn’t let Shiar hurt him anymore.

  Cego couldn’t move, though; he lay paralyzed on the floor. He could feel the hazy fog that came with the neuro they’d injected him with, the same drug they’d given him when they first dragged him off the streets. He could do nothing but watch his friend get beaten.

  Shiar was on Weep, throwing punches and kicks at the boy as he desperately tried to cover up from the ground. With a jackal-like grin on his face, Shiar drove his knee into Weep’s belly, bearing his full weight down into the boy’s solar plexus. From there, Shiar threw blow after blow like a jackhammer, driving Weep’s head into the dirt. Weep turned over onto his stomach and curled up into a ball, trying to escape the vicious onslaught.

  Shiar laughed and stood up over Weep. Cego saw the jackal turn toward him and catch his eyes just before he threw the first kick from above, which thudded into Weep’s rib cage. The next kick caught Weep on the side of the head, bouncing it back and forth like a tethered ball.

  Cego tried to scream but nothing came out. With every bit of energy in his body, Cego wanted to stand up and save Weep. He’d fight Shiar; he’d fight Ozark, even—whatever it took. But he couldn’t do anything. Cego lay on the floor, immobilized, helpless again.

  Weep’s eyes met his, their two heads level on the yard’s red dirt. For a moment, Cego thought he saw a glimmer of light behind Weep’s eyes. The same glimmer he’d seen in Sam’s eyes. Asking those same questions: Why am I here? Why am I fighting?

  Another kick thudded into the boy’s body and the light was gone.

  *

  Though they were torturous, those days training in Anderson’s basement felt good to Murray. He felt like he was doing something worthwhile after so many years beyond dredging up Grievar brood on a hopeless mission.

  Though he remembered Anderson as a good training partner back in the day, Murray never realized his friend could be such a hard-nosed coach. The lanky Grievar’s laid-back demeanor evaporated when Murray told him how important this all was—taking the fight to the Dragoon and winning Cego’s freedom.

  From that point forward, Murray was on the mats, huffing, sweating, grunting, keeling over, vomiting in the can in the corner of the room and generally feeling like he was dying.

  The basement had the bare basics of combat training equipment, but it was more than enough for two old Grievar Knights.

  A tattered jump rope, Anderson staring hard-eyed at Murray, analyzing his footwork and mobility as he warmed up, alternating his stances, cadence, and speed. A corner heavy bag, Anderson standing behind it, shouting at Murray for one more minute of repeated hooks, constant knees, cutting elbows. Well-worn striking pads, Anderson expertly wielding them on both hands, calling out for Murray to throw, one-, two-, three-, four-, five-, and six-punch combinations. A thin tatami mat, frayed through to the floor in spots, Anderson screaming for Murray to sprawl onto it and shoot forward for single- and double-leg takedowns. A heavy, patched-up grappling dummy, Anderson standing over Murray, yelling at him that it was the last minute of his fight with the Dragoon and he needed to finish his floored opponent with ground and pound. Two to the body, one to the head, two to the body, one to the head, over and over again.

  And when Murray was at his worst, panting like a dog, trying to savor every breath, it was suddenly time for sparring rounds. Though Anderson was older now, the lanky man still threw jabs with frightening speed, catching Murray on the nose, jolting his head back as he repeatedly tried to get inside.

  They would grapple on the mats with Anderson wrapping Murray up in his legs (his guard game had been notorious back in the Citadel), throwing submission after submission at him, seamlessly flowing from triangle neck attacks to omoplata shoulder locks to straight arm bars.

  At the end of one session, the two old Grievar lay side by side on the mats, sweat and blood dripping from their skin.

  Murray turned to look at his old friend. “Why do you think he left?”

  Anderson looked up at the ceiling, his chest expanding and contracting, his arms sprawled out at his sides.

  Murray continued, “It was right after I lost. I know Coach said it wasn’t because of that, but I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that it was somehow my fault.”

  Anderson sighed. “Every path has got to end sometime. Maybe Coach knew it was time for him. Things changed fast—the Citadel no longer following the Codes to the letter. You, me, Leyna, Coach, any Grievar—we’re all working on fading light, anyways. You know that.”

  “Yeah, fading… Fade from the light gracefully. That’s what some Citadel clerk said to me that day when they transferred me from service. Shoulda been straight and said they’re tossing me into a vat of bat shit instead.”

  “A Scout job is respectable,” Anderson said.

  Murray snorted. “Bah, respectable. Scouting for the Citadel is something, but going after these kids in the dark—they knew, Memnon knew what he was doing to me. He’s still holding that loss against me.”

  “I hope the High Commander of the Citadel has more to do than hold grudges after all these years,” Anderson said.

  “Fade from the light gracefully,” Murray repeated. “Follow the path, do it for the good of the nation. All that stuff—I got it. I just keep coming back to how everything fell apart all of a sudden. One moment, we were all standing in the light—so bright, Mercuri stadium, fans cheering, the stability of the entire region riding on our shoulders, and the next thing you know, here we are, lying on your basement floor in the Deep, over ten years later,” Murray said.

  Anderson turned toward Murray. “Maybe so; I sometimes get the same feeling, like I’m spinning after taking a hit.” Anderson looked down for a moment. “But you need to adapt, as Coach would say. You fall into an opponent’s trap, make it work for you. Sure, maybe Memnon knew what he was doing to you. Throwing his best Grievar Knight in the past decade into the Deep, turning him into a lowly Scout. Make him pay for it Murray. You say you’re onto something here with this boy Cego. That’s a start.”

  Murray nodded, exhaling. “Yeah, it’s a darkin’ start.”

  *

  The boy walked alongside the burly man, the top of Cego’s shaved head only coming up to Murray’s midsection.

  Lampai Stadium glowed in the distance at the end of Markspar Row. The midshift light coated the surface of the Underground’s streets in a golden sheen. The cawing and cooing of hawkers from the nearby market echoed on the stone walls around the two companions.

  “Let’s get away from the hawkers… Never know what you’ll end up buying from the crafty ones during midshift,” Murray said. He’d been trying to get the kid talking, have him open up about his past, but it had been difficu
lt to get him to even open his mouth.

  As they approached the stadium, the bustle on the street grew thicker, with swarms of Deep folk jostling their way toward the daily fights at Lampai. Murray watched Cego swivel his head at the sights, sounds and smells that infiltrated every street corner.

  The Grievar-kin stood out amongst the plethora of laborers and hawkers. Thickly muscled, scarred, grizzled, and gnarled, the Grievar walked boldly under the light, their chests puffed out and their muscles bulging, intricate flux tattoos adorning their bodies like works of art.

  Murray caught Cego staring at some of the bare-skinned Grievar. The flux ink adorning their bodies swirled and reformed under the strong midshift light. A bear tattoo on an exposed chest reared up on its hind legs and swiped its paws menacingly. An octopus tattoo on another Grievar’s back expanded and unfurled, reaching with its tentacles down the man’s arms and legs.

  Murray could feel his own flux tattoos shifting under the light, even from underneath his thick cloak. He could sense each tattoo as if it had a personality, a unique characteristic he’d acquired during his path.

  “Flux tattoos,” Murray said to Cego. “They used to mean something. Now Grievar get whatever fits their darkin’ fancy.”

  Closer to the stadium, the two passed a Daimyo caravan pulled by a pack of Grunts, thick-shouldered haulers whose sole purpose was to drag their noble master around. Even though the Daimyos had mechs for transport without slave labor, many preferred to show off with an entire mobile caravan, complete with Grunts pulling the vehicles from the helm, pleasure shrine girls draped across the inner chambers, and armed mercenaries surrounding the entire procession.

  The Daimyo noble at the center of the caravan was shielded from the street as usual with a glass pod surrounding him, likely electrified to the touch and with mounted stunners along the frame.

  Murray could see the blue-veined man staring out from behind the glass, though, watching the rabble on the street. Even with the shield between them, Murray wondered if he could put his fist through it and crush the frail creature’s skull if he timed it right. His heart quickened at the thought.

  One of the mercs guarding the caravan eyed Murray suspiciously as they passed each other. The man looked to be a Grievar, yet he carried Daimyo tech—a thick steel rod that pulsed with a menacing blue current. Murray had felt the effects of an auralite-forged weapon before. The second the rod made contact, it took your knees out from under you, made you want to curl up into a ball and give up.

  “No tools, no tech,” Murray growled as he passed by the merc. The man flinched but continued to march forward.

  Before they reached the square in front of Lampai, Murray guided Cego away from the main thoroughfare toward a smaller side street that looped around the back of the stadium.

  Cego never asked questions about where they were going, but Murray could tell the kid was thirsty for knowledge. Murray had been the same way when Coach had brought his team out on expeditions around Mercuri or to foreign lands beyond the borders. Everything was new, each sight unique.

  Murray had planned on taking the kid straight to Anderson’s, maybe let Leyna make him some of those famed Deep cakes of hers. Certainly would be an improvement over that green slop they called food at Thaloo’s. First, though, Murray decided he’d bring the kid to a place he himself hadn’t visited in ages.

  The pair walked in silence beyond clamor of the stadium and followed the small path toward Daeomons Hill, a steep, rocky incline that lead up to the back side of the steppe.

  When he’d just set out on his path, Murray could remember sprinting up Daeomons Hill for endurance training, purposely setting his lungs on fire so that the burn wouldn’t seem so bad in the Circle. With his fight with the Dragoon looming, Murray wanted to test himself again.

  “Ready for a bit of a workout?” Murray looked down at the boy, who nodded silently.

  Murray tried to think about the Dragoon as he and the boy started up the hill. Though he’d made progress with Anderson over the past two weeks, he still was nowhere in the shape he’d need to be to keep up with a much younger Grievar.

  Murray’s heart started to thump in his chest as he visualized the upcoming fight. The spectral light filtering from Lampai’s giant arrays, the crowd boisterous and zoned in on the two Grievar in the Circle. The thrill and anticipation right before the bout began, a steady tingling in his belly that would give way to a euphoria that filled his chest, surging through his arms and legs, guiding him toward his opponent.

  Murray pushed his pace as the hill inclined sharply, cutting away the view of the steppe above. He looked at Cego at his side, who seemed to be thinking the same thing as him—get to the top. The boy’s golden eyes gleamed with determination as he continued to push the pace up the hill, his short legs taking two strides for every one of the big mans’.

  Soon, Murray and the boy were running full steam, scrambling up the rocky ravine toward the top of the cliff face. Murray could feel the wear of his old body, his joints creaking as his legs pumped faster.

  Though he was worn down, something felt different. He was going somewhere. He wanted this fight. He looked to the boy, striding up the hill without fear, only looking forward to his next step.

  Murray’s heart beat rapidly in his chest as he launched himself forward. The two left an avalanche of gravel behind them as they scrambled up the hill. The last ascent was the steepest—the pair needed to throw their hands to the rocky surface to keep their balance as they clawed for the top.

  Murray’s body wanted to give way, like an old pod line that wasn’t meant to be working any longer. The Dragoon wouldn’t stop, though. The Dragoon wouldn’t be forgiving like this hill. Cego’s freedom wouldn’t be forgiven either—the boy depended on Murray. He needed him to fight through the burn.

  Murray let out a deep cry from his chest. “Ossuu!”

  He fell to his knees, finally at the top of the hill. His chest heaved up and down like a bellows trying to keep a dying fire lit. Cego stood next to him, breathing hard now but with a calm look in his golden eyes.

  Murray huffed, “Used to be easier!”

  The pair surveyed their surroundings. From the top of Daeomons Hill, the view of the Underground was unique.

  The cavern glowed with yellow iridescence cast down by the giant elemental arrays laid into the scrimshaw ceiling thousands of meters up. Spectrals danced around the arrays like swarms of glowing moths.

  Grey buildings sprouted from the bedrock and paved streets zigzagged between the buildings, broadening into wide thoroughfares and narrowing into thin alleys.

  To the north, the Lift looked like a giant tree, its roots burrowing into the cavern floor, creeping under the gridded streets, its trunk rising into the shadowy cave ceiling. To the west, the midshift light bathed the market district like an undulating current, ebbing and flowing along with the bustle of the city center below.

  Murray’s eyes shifted to the center of the city, where Lampai Stadium burst from the bedrock like a gem glittering in the Deep. Hordes would stream into Lampai every day at the height of the lightshift to watch the Underground’s top Grievar in action. In one week, Murray would be standing within a Circle at Lampai’s apex, facing the Dragoon.

  Murray breathed out slowly.

  The steppe was now directly in front of the two, layers of fertile growth built alongside a central stairway, rows of glowing moss and lichen crops clinging to the bedrock on each level. The crops were fed by Dagmar Falls, which spewed from an opening above and was then channeled along to the rows of each level for irrigation.

  Cego’s eyes were wide as usual, taking it all in. His breath was misty in the damp, fertile air beneath Dagmar Falls.

  Murray broke the silence. “Thought you’d enjoy the view.”

  Cego surprised Murray then, speaking methodically. “It reminds me of home.”

  “Where in the Deep are you from, kid?” Murray nodded at the various Underground districts laid out across
the plateau below them.

  Cego continued to stare out at the steppe and the falls beyond it. He slowly responded, “I don’t know.”

  After the trauma many slave brood went through, getting ripped away from their families or worse, it wouldn’t surprise him if Cego had blocked out the past. Murray decided to change the subject.

  “Hey. Do you know how to swim, kid?”

  Cego’s eyes lit up. He nodded and Murray breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Follow me.” Murray motioned for Cego to trail him up toward the steppe.

  The two began to climb the ancient staircase, moving past luminous rows of growth on each level. Cego stared, clearly astonished, as the crops pulsed in a dizzying array of green hues, ranging from the gaudy bright fluorescence of lichens to the dark, forest bloom of the mosses. Growers were heaving out large bags of fertilizer from storage sheds on each level, and hundreds of harvesters were out working in the crops.

  Murray and Cego reached the top of the steppe and walked to the base of Dagmar Falls. White spray soaked the two as they moved single file around the edge of the falls and then behind the rushing water.

  A small cave behind the falls opened into to a stone passageway illuminated by dull source sconces set into the walls. Wordlessly, Cego followed Murray, the sound of the rushing water slowly fading behind them as they continued upward.

  The pair emerged into a wide cavern. In front of them, a glassy lake shimmered turquoise, illuminated by the now-nascent dusklight streaming through a hole in the cavern ceiling.

  With a sweeping gesture, Murray signaled their arrival. “Lake Dagmar.” Though the majority of the lake to the east was often crowded with visitors, this particular section was kept secret by a select few.

  Murray watched Cego dive beneath the glassy sheen of the lake. The kid swam like an otter, staying beneath the water for minutes at a time before surfacing for air. He looked like he belonged in the water, just as he’d appeared to belong in the Circle.

  The way that Cego had stood motionless, waiting for his opponent, utilizing only the minimal amount of energy to finish them, replayed in Murray’s head. Where had he learned to fight like that? How could brood so young have such ability?