The Combat Codes

by Alexander Darwin

  Cego shook his head in disbelief. How could he be here again? He’d spent countless days swimming these waters. Diving to their depths, trailing unsuspecting turtles far beneath the waves. The old master often had them dive below and carry heavy stones across the seafloor until their breath gave out.

  Cego had the urge to jump in, to dive down and forget everything that had happened. Forget that he was taking some Trial, trying to enter the Lyceum and become a Knight.

  Instead, Cego sat cross-legged on the shore, just as he used to, focusing on his ki breath, timing it to the inhales and exhales of the tide. He fought the urge to fall asleep with the warm sun on his face.

  He breathed until he was mindful of everything around him: the tiny grains of sand beneath him, the slight breeze blowing from the west making the hairs along his neck stand up, the tide frothing in to bring armies of white shells to shore before carrying them back out to sea again.

  When he was satisfied, Cego stood and climbed back toward the house, Arry yipping at him from atop the dune as usual. He made his way to the Circle, where the old master was still sitting. It looked like he hadn’t moved an inch.

  “Was the boy dreaming of his time amongst the stars, or was it the man who dreamed of his time on earth?” Farmer asked again.

  Cego still didn’t respond. He waited for the old master to speak.

  “Go carry up some pails of the red mud by the tide pools.”

  Cego nodded. He went to the kitchen and grabbed a long staff by the sliding closet door. He fastened a pail to each end of the staff and ran back down the sand dune, jogging along the beach with the pole across his shoulders.

  Would Sam be by the tide pools, avoiding his duties as usual and scouring the waters for strange creatures? Cego’s stomach fluttered at the thought of seeing his younger brother. If Sam asked him to stay here on the Island, how could he refuse?

  Sam wasn’t there—the tide pools were quiet.

  The blue sky reflected on the water’s surface, wavering as soft, purple blossoms fell into the pools from the overhanging moringa trees. A grey heron hopped around the edges, eyeing the water for the slightest movement before diving in to scoop up an unsuspecting mudfish.

  Cego walked down to the shore. He could feel the soft red mud sinking beneath his feet and squishing up between his toes. He set the pails on the ground and began to fill both with mud. When the pails were filled to the brim, Cego crouched and carefully set the staff across his shoulders before making the slow journey back.

  He returned to Farmer’s Circle, where the old master was still sitting silently. The sun had crested and the sinking afternoon light glinted off of the ironwood Circle.

  Cego didn’t need to be told what to do—he’d performed the ritual a thousand times. He got down on his hands and knees and began to spread the mud across the dark frame of the Circle. Farmer watched him silently as he made sure every inch of the Circle was covered. In a few hours, the crusty mud would peel off to a newly polished Circle, all the grime and wear stripped by the salty mixture.

  “The work is done, master,” Cego said, his hands covered with the red mud.

  Farmer again asked his question. “Was the boy dreaming of his time amongst the stars, or was it the man who dreamed of his time on earth?”

  Once again, Cego stayed silent.

  “Go fetch a bundle of fathyas sprout from the cliffs,” the old master finally spoke.

  Cego nodded. Again, he knew exactly where to go.

  He ran down around the other side of the house, through a short field of beach shrubs, and into the forest of ironwood trees. He cut through the trees at a sprint, enjoying the feeling of the soft pine needles shifting beneath his feet.

  Cego stopped at the base of a rocky outcropping that extended to both sides of him into the forest. He crawled up a large boulder and pressed himself against a wall of stone, nearly vertical above him.

  Cego closed his eyes as he placed his hand against the cool rock surface, feeling every slight curve of the stone. He lifted himself up, grasping with his bare feet and reaching for his next grip above. The boulders below him became pebbles as he climbed. Cego looked up and saw the crisp blue sky above. He reached toward it.

  *

  Murray stared at Cego’s lightboard in disbelief. Everyone else in the room was also watching his lightboard, their eyes glued to Cego as he scaled the stone cliff face with ease.

  Murray had no idea how the kid was doing this. Cego was familiar with every step of this Trial. He knew not to immediately respond to the Guardian’s question. He knew exactly where to go for each of the Guardian’s requests.

  Callen Albright was looking over at Murray, his face contorted in anger. Murray knew what the Scout Commander was thinking—that somehow, Murray and Cego had cheated.

  That was impossible, though. The simulation had an endless number of tasks and outcomes. The Guardian didn’t ask the same question of every kid or make the same requests. Looking at the boards across the room, every kid was doing something different.

  Some had blatantly disobeyed the Guardian’s orders. Shiar had started his Trial by calling the old man a fraud and challenging him to a fight, which had not ended well for Shiar, to say the least. Murray could see Dozer rebuilding the stone wall around the garden, straining his muscles to lift huge rocks into place. The bald boy was sitting across from the Guardian, silently—as if the two were engaged in some sort of mental conversation.

  Cego was the only one that knew exactly what to do. As if he had done this all before. Murray’s mind raced—luck was out of the question—there was no way Cego could chance upon such detailed findings.

  Even if the kid had somehow known about the Sim beforehand and studied intensely, he wouldn’t have had such precise access to it. Some purelight families with the resources tried to verse their kids with maps, stories, and details from the memories of those who had already gone through the Trials, but even then, the kids were usually at a loss when presented with the complexity of the real thing.

  Murray watched Cego reach for each grip on the cliff face as if he knew exactly where it would be, never hesitating.

  It was as if he’d been in the Sim before. He moved through it like he’d done so a thousand times. It was impossible. Cego wouldn’t have had access to this sort of Daimyo tech.

  Callen Albright suddenly stood. High Commander Memnon was moving for the doorway, nodding for him to follow. Albright gave Murray another derisive look before following Memnon outside of the viewing room.

  They knew something.

  *

  The Island breeze cooled Cego’s back as he neared the top of the cliff. Though he was thoroughly enjoying climbing again, he’d forgotten the battered state the previous two Trials had left him in. His back ached from the vicious throws to the ice, and his face felt like a worn-in punching mitt from the fight in the arena.

  Still, something felt right, climbing again. He ignored his pain and enjoyed the search for every new grip, finding satisfaction with each footing along the cliff face.

  Cego approached the most difficult part of the climb—he’d need to swing almost a full body length to his right with no foothold. Cego could remember the first time he’d encountered the gap: he’d tried to double-grip one small handhold to cross it. His hands had been smaller than, but even so, he’d barely been able to hold on to the rock face.

  Cego reached with his right arm to its full extension to grasp the small outcropping. He pushed off with his left foot. He swung to his right—just as his body crossed the vertical plane of his first grip, he crossed under with his left hand to reach out for the next rock outcropping. For a split second, he wasn’t holding on to anything. This was the moment Cego looked forward to. At this moment, his mind was clear. Only stone at his side, sky above him, and earth beneath him. It was the same feeling Cego got the moment he executed a flawless technique, one that he’d practiced a thousand times before. The second he hit that move, there was nothing else—
he was the technique.

  Cego breathlessly found a sturdy placement under his foot and began to scale the final few meters of the cliff. He pulled himself over the precipice and surveyed his surroundings.

  From the top of the cliff, the ocean looked like a slumbering emerald giant curled up around him. The sun was nearly sinking beneath the horizon now, casting the black-sand beach below in a diaphanous golden light. The Path was just becoming visible, the outline of its serpentine body appearing as if it were slithering from the deep.

  Cego noticed that the land around Farmer’s house formed a faint grey circle where the grass stopped and the carefully placed pebble walkway began. Farther out, the ironwood forest formed another circle—Cego could clearly make out the tree line that surrounded the compound. He turned around and gazed into the distance where the waters curled around him in every direction. Another giant circle. Even the sky was a circle; if Cego craned his head upward, he could imagine a massive dome arcing around him.

  Circles were everywhere. Smaller circles within larger ones—some overlapping and sharing some piece of sky or earth, and some distinct and separate spheres that existed independently. Had it always been like this? Cego could remember standing atop this cliff many times, dangling his legs from the rock, enjoying the ocean breeze. Why had he never noticed the circles before?

  Though he didn’t know how to phrase it yet, an answer to Farmer’s question surfaced in his mind, as if he were the heron that suddenly noticed the fish in the tide pools.

  He walked down to the far side of the cliff, where a patch of leafy greens sprouted directly from the rock. Fathyas sprout. Cego plucked a bundle of it, making sure not to pull up the roots, as Farmer had always instructed. He held the sprout to his nose, deeply inhaling the minty aroma.

  Cego took one last glance at the world around him, so crisp and vibrant. The sun sank just behind the horizon and the green luminescence of the Path began to shimmer on the ocean. How could this not be real?

  He made his way back down the cliff and through the forest to Farmer’s house just as darkness crept across the Island. The crickets within the tall grass welcomed the night with their rhythmic chirping.

  The Circle had shed the red mud that Cego had painted on, and its polished ironwood frame now pulsed with a neon fluorescence. The old master was still sitting within the Circle, his tree-bark face illuminated by the black light.

  “I have brought you the fathyas sprout, master,” Cego said.

  Farmer nodded.

  Just as expected, the old master repeated his question. “Was the boy dreaming of his time amongst the stars, or was it the man who dreamed of his time on earth?”

  Cego was ready this time. He looked at the Circle around them. It appeared to be the same Circle he had spent so many hours training within. Years of his life, spent in these short eight meters of ironwood.

  He thought of all of the other Circles he’d trained or fought in. He thought about those Circles he knew existed all over the world that he hadn’t yet stepped into, where Grievar were fighting for nation or servitude.

  “He was sitting in a Circle,” Cego answered.

  Nothing happened. Farmer stared forward in silence, unmoving. Did he answer correctly? Would he suddenly be transported back to the Lyceum—back to the real world, wherever that was? Or would he be stuck here, in this strange dream?

  Cego contemplated what it would be like to stay here on the Island. Back home again. The thought scared him, but was comforting. A simple life, training and living on the land without the notion of a greater purpose, a lightpath he was destined to follow.

  Farmer suddenly stood up, his robe straightening around him. The old master met Cego’s eyes and bowed slightly.

  Cego returned the bow; he’d done so a thousand times before.

  Farmer approached him slowly in a crouch, his elbows tight to his body. Cego mimicked his master’s stance.

  Farmer shot in, his old body moving with the unrivaled swiftness and fluidity that Cego remembered. Cego tried to sprawl, but Farmer’s hands were already clasped around his legs, putting him down on the canvas.

  Cego shrimped his hips out, circling his legs around Farmer’s knee and shooting his hand in for an underhook. Farmer allowed him to take the underhook, fishing his own overhook under Cego’s armpit and through to the other side of his neck, countering with the brabo choke. Cego felt the pressure on his neck and shrimped out the other way. Farmer tracked him with his body weight and pushed him down into side control.

  Cego sensed the old master moving around his head to the north-south position, so he quickly rolled over his shoulder, taking one of Farmer’s arms in the process. Cego shot his hips up, trying to straighten the arm out to break it, but Farmer was always one step ahead, stacking Cego on his neck and swiveling around back to his side again.

  Farmer popped up and pressed his knee into Cego’s sternum, pulling his neck at the same time and forcing the air out of his lungs. Cego turned his body for a split second to relieve the pressure, and somehow, Farmer was already on his back, as if the old man had teleported there.

  Even in the compromised position, Cego smiled. He could sense Farmer taking him apart, piece by piece. And he missed it.

  Cego had not asked the old master the many questions on the tip of his tongue during the Trial. He’d followed his instructions and answered his question. This was enough for Cego, though. This fight was their conversation—Cego asked his questions with quick escapes and arm bar attempts, and the old master answered with stifling pressure and chokes.

  Cego fought Farmer’s hands, each seeming to have a will of its own, snaking across his throat. He twisted his hips to the side, trying to free himself from the man’s hooks. He knew his last efforts were fruitless. He’d been entangled in this web before and there was no escape.

  Though Farmer didn’t appear to recognize him, or remember him in any way—this was certainly the same old master who had trained him for so many years. Cego knew that now. The way he moved—at one moment, as light as a feather, and at the next, as heavy as a boulder. That exacting pressure of Farmer’s forearm slicing across his throat. The precise position of his feet caught in the crooks of Cego’s knees.

  Farmer’s arm tightened across his neck. Cego could feel the edges of his vision blur. For a moment, Cego felt warm as the cocoon of darkness closed in on him. What was that warmth? It was foreign to him, but he could remember the feeling like the embrace an old friend.

  Cego smiled as the world went dark again.

  *

  Murray stepped up to the door of High Commander’s Memnon’s private office, unannounced. Not many in the Citadel would consider such a breach of protocol, but Murray didn’t care. He needed to get some answers. He set his eye in front of the lightdeck planted in the door and let it scan him. The shouting inside the office quieted immediately.

  After a few moments, the door swished open. Callen Albright was sitting in Memnon’s office, as Murray had expected. The two looked like they’d been having a heated discussion—Memnon was standing over Callen, his eyes fiery. Albright flashed that smug grin that made Murray want to put his head through the adjacent shield window.

  “Scout Pearson, I don’t believe you had an appointment with the High Commander,” Callen said.

  “Did you have an appointment, Commander Callen?” Murray retorted.

  “No… but I am—”

  Memnon cut Callen off. “Dark this appointment talk. Scout Pearson, your arrival is actually timely. We have some questions for you.”

  “Questions for me?” Murray asked incredulously. “I’m here because I have questions for you. What happened in the Sim?!”

  “What did happen in the Sim, Pearson? Something your Commanders should be aware of perhaps?” Callen fished.

  “I’m not here to play mind games with you, Commander Albright,” Murray said. He turned away from the wiry Grievar and addressed Memnon directly. “Be straight with me, High Commander. I’
ve only ever done such with you. I know something is going on—whatever happened with Cego in that Sim was not normal. The way he navigated it. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Memnon met Murray’s eyes. Murray could see the wear on the High Commander’s face. He looked tired, as if he’d aged a decade since Murray had last spoken with him.

  Memnon and Coach had come up in the Citadel together. They’d been practically brothers, fighting on the same team throughout their Knight’s service. Coach had been offered the Commander position first but turned it down, saying he wasn’t a politik, he was a Grievar. Memnon had been second choice and found himself as High Commander within five years. Coach stayed on as head trainer of the Knights.

  At first, the two had worked well together, Coach coordinating his program to complement Memnon’s vision: training a team of Knights that was well rounded, Grievar who could fight and win in any climate or Circle.

  Soon, though, Murray could remember Coach muttering about Memnon getting in the way of him doing his job, saying the Citadel was heading down a path he didn’t like. Part of the rift between the two had developed because of the neurostimulants circulating in the team—Coach couldn’t get behind that. But there was more to it—something that drove the two friends even further apart.

  Eventually, Coach wouldn’t even mention Memnon’s name, as if saying it out loud would sully the Combat Codes. It wasn’t too long after that Coach had disappeared.

  “Scout Pearson. I understand your concern for your talent. But you dishonor us by inferring that we know more about this situation than you do,” Memnon said pointedly.

  Dishonor? Murray had the mind to say a thing or two about darkin’ honor right here in the High Commander’s office, but he held his tongue.

  “We need you to answer some questions for us so that we can appropriately deal with this situation,” Memnon said.

  “What do you mean, deal with? Cego didn’t do anything; he doesn’t deserve any—”

  “Don’t worry. Your talent will remain safe at study in the Lyceum. As I said, though, to deal with this situation, we need you to answer a few questions.” Memnon waved toward a chair in front of him.