“Joba—he does not make words.” Abel, the little Kirothian, spoke up for his big friend. “We have one like him in Karsh, born without words. He can speak with eyes, though,” Abel added.
Dozer nodded, looking up into Joba’s big yellow eyes. “I see what you’re saying. Yeah, I can see the words in his eyes right now. He’s saying… this Dozer fella. He’s sure to be the Citadel’s next Champion!”
Solara wasn’t quite so jovial. Perhaps because she was the only girl in the bunk or among so many lacklights, Cego speculated. She only spoke in brief yes or no, and Cego noticed she still had her fists clenched.
Within a few minutes of settling down, Dozer started grappling with Joba in the center of the room, in a natural circle formed between their cots. Dozer tried to hit a double-leg, and though Joba’s sprawl wasn’t the most technical, the huge boy easily pushed Dozer to the ground and stood back up, smiling innocently.
“Heh-heh. Wow. I’ll needa get used to fighting bigger kids than me!” Dozer grinned and slapped Joba on the shoulder.
Cego was about to give Dozer a pointer on his form when Solara interjected. “For a larger opponent, you’re better off scooping up a single or picking the ankle,” she said in a steely voice.
Dozer looked at her curiously.
“Hmm… I think against someone that big, maybe tomoe nage would work—using their forward momentum against them,” Cego quickly said as he thought back to his Trial on the Ice. He actually agreed with Solara on the ankle pick, but he’d been thinking of a way to say something to her, and the words were already out of his mouth.
Solara eyed Cego, her brow furrowed. “You would say that, wouldn’t you?” she said. “Why don’t we both try out our techniques on Joba here and see which works better?”
Joba gave the two a worried look.
“Um, I wasn’t saying that your technique wouldn’t work or anything… I was just saying maybe tomoe nage would be better,” Cego said.
“Better?!” Solara raised her voice. “Just because you placed ahead of me in the Trials, because you got to make picks for teams, you think you are already better at everything?”
“No—no. I’m not saying that…” Cego stuttered.
Dozer and Abel had taken a seat on the floor and were chuckling at the spectacle.
“Let’s do it,” Solara said. “Joba, let Cego try his technique on you. Do whatever you normally would do to prevent getting taken down.
Joba slowly nodded, though he seemed worried.
Looking at Solara’s clenched jaw, Cego realized she wasn’t going to have it any other way. “Okay… Joba, you ready?” Cego asked, staring up at the boy.
Joba nodded again.
Cego squared up with Joba. The boy really was huge.
Cego shot in for a quick double-leg, just as Dozer had done. He got in fairly deep, but he knew he wasn’t going to hit it against someone so much larger than him. Joba sprawled his full weight on Cego’s shoulders. Just as he felt Joba pressing forward, Cego rolled backward, pushing his feet against Joba’s hips, attempting to throw the mountainous boy over his head. Unfortunately, one of Cego’s feet slipped past Joba’s hip, and the huge boy landed directly on top of him instead.
“Oomph,” Cego’s muffled voice came from beneath Joba’s bulk.
Even Mateus was keeling over with laughter, joining Dozer and Abel on the sidelines of the makeshift circle.
“My turn,” Solara said, as Cego slowly stood up. Luckily, nothing but his pride had been damaged by the failed takedown.
Solara squared up with Joba, flipping her red braid over her shoulder and tucking her elbows. Her eyes burned with fiery intensity. Though he hadn’t seen it before, Cego could now see that she truly was the daughter of Artemis Halberd.
She shot in for a fluid single-leg, grasping around one of Joba’s tree trunk-sized thighs. Joba quickly dropped his weight onto her. It looked like Solara was about to get crushed, but she quickly swiveled between Joba’s legs and around to his back. She crossed one of her legs behind both of Joba’s feet and fell to the side while pulling him down by the thigh, making the huge boy topple over her.
Solara stood up with a satisfactory grin and blew a tuft of her hair out of her eyes, staring Cego down.
Cego shook his head. “But you didn’t hit the single-leg! You ended up going for that back trip.”
“Hopefully, you’ll learn in one of our classes that it’s important to reevaluate, even mid-technique,” she replied matter-of-factly.
“But… if I had known I could go for a different tech—”
“Nice room you have here,” Shiar said, standing at their entryway with two of his teammates. “A fitting junkyard for this team.”
Dozer stood up and tensed his shoulders, his eyes locked on Shiar. The quarter proctor, a Level Three student, had told them that combat without a formal challenge would not be tolerated. That’s clearly what Shiar wanted—to get them in trouble right from the start.
He addressed Solara and Mateus, the two purelights on their team. “How sorry you two must be… stuck with this bunch of sponge-eating, Deep-spawned lacklights.”
“I’m sure we’re better off than any sorry team that has got to put up with you,” Dozer growled.
Shiar knew Dozer was the most susceptible to his verbal assaults. He turned to him. “Dozer. It seems you’ve already grown attached to this group, so quick to defend them. In fact, the little dark sponge-eater here even reminds me of… what was his name again? Oh, yes, Weep.”
Cego moved in front of Dozer. He could feel his friend breathing heavily, like a bull about to charge.
Luckily, Solara was suddenly in front of Shiar’s face.
“Everyone knows your parents dumped you off in the Deep like most of the kids in this room. At least they have the guts to accept where they’re from, instead of pretending they’re from the Twelve.” She shoved Shiar backward.
Shiar’s face turned red. He looked to his two companions, both of whom appeared equally baffled with how to deal with the fiery girl.
“What a disappointment you must have been,” Shiar hissed. “Everyone expecting Artemis Halberd’s brood to be Mercuri’s next savior… waiting on the edge of their seats. And then you popped out. Though, I must say, your dad has done quite a good job in trying to save face for his… mistake. He must have worked hard to make you into such a proper son.”
Though Solara kept her face straight, Cego could tell Shiar had hit a soft spot.
“See you in class, Son of Halberd,” Shiar said as he turned and walked away with his teammates, laughing.
Solara stood quietly for a moment, straight-backed. Cego approached her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for standing up for us,” he said.
“I wasn’t standing up for you!” she snapped. “I saw trash in front of me and wanted it out of my new bunk.”
Cego looked down at the floor, not knowing how to respond. “Uh, I know… but—”
“I’m sorry,” Solara said, exhaling softly. “I’ve been dealing with people like him for my entire life. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
“No one gets used to Shiar,” Cego interjected. “If the Lyceum studied the techniques of verbal attacks, Shiar would be a Level Sixer by now.”
Solara chuckled. “I see. Well, we’ll need to keep our eye on someone like that.”
“Always,” Cego replied. “And earlier… Solara, I wasn’t trying to say your technique was wrong or anything. I was just saying there are other options.”
“I know. I sort of just wanted to see you get smashed under Joba, though.” Solara playfully shoved Cego. “And call me Sol,” she said.
11
The Whelps
Listen to the words of even the most neophyte Grievar. Though such a newly skilled combatant is unlikely to provide worthy advice to a veteran, one with stoppered ears and a shuttered mind will never find the path to mastery.
Passage Nine, Two Hundred First Precept of the Combat
Codes
Cego looked at himself in the mirror set along the back wall of Quarter D.
He tried to flatten out his matted black hair which stood puffed up atop his head—a stark contrast to shaving it every day at Thaloo’s.
Cego was wearing the new custom-fit second skin that the Lyceum had provided him. It was white, to denote he was a Level One, and clung tightly to his entire body from his neck down to his wrists and ankles. The strange stretchy material literally felt like a second skin, and according to the proctors, it provided increased blood flow and decreased the chance of injury during practice.
“Level One second skins are white so that the blood shows up on ’em best. They get darker each time you level up,” Mateus Winterfowl grimly told the rest of the team as they appraised their new skins.
Cego pulled down the nape of his skin’s neck to check out his new flux tattoo. Just as expected, the egg hatched, and the dragon whelp popped out with its curious yellow eyes. Cego had gotten in the habit of looking at the tattoo as a reminder to himself that he was actually a student here at the Lyceum. In any other world—dream or simulation—he was guessing he wouldn’t see the intricate pattern.
The rest of his team had taken the new tattoo as a jab at their relative inexperience compared to higher-level Lyceum students. They were all mere whelps compared to the bears, lions, and dragons that roamed these halls. Cego didn’t take it that way, though. When he looked at his new tattoo, it reminded him to stay curious like the little whelp.
Cego doubled back to his cot and sat down, checking his class schedule on his new lightdeck. He’d never actually owned anything before, and even though he knew the Lyceum technically owned the equipment, it felt good to have something.
There were three mandatory classes that all Level Ones were required to take every day, Grappling Level One, Striking Level One, and Performance Augmentation. In addition, students were assigned one specialty class based on a skill the proctors thought they were lacking in. Cego wasn’t surprised to see that Circles and Alloys was listed on his schedule.
Each student also had two elective classes to fill out the rest of their schedule. Electives were cross-level courses that were open to all students within the Lyceum. By far the most popular elective was Stratagems and Maneuvers, taught by the famed ex-Knight Jos Danahar.
Danahar had been known for his crafty techniques in the Circle that were tailor-made to dissect his opponent’s games. Though he was never the strongest or fastest of the Citadel’s Knights, he’d been able to utilize his master grasp of strategy to attain one of the highest winning percentages in Mercuri’s history. Now Danahar served as one of the Citadel’s top coaches, helping develop game plans for each Knight months in advance of their bouts. In his spare time, he taught a class at the Lyceum.
Cego couldn’t resist putting his name in the running for Stratagems and Maneuvers, though he doubted he’d be picked with students of all levels vying for a spot in the class. He also elected to take Commander Aon Farstead’s class—The Combat Codes—which he figured would be easier to get into.
Cego’s lightdeck flashed, indicating that his morning Performance Augmentation class was starting in thirty minutes.
The Whelps—which his team had been aptly named for their first flux tattoos—exited Quarter D together, heading down the main dormitory hall toward the common ground. Abel had taken to teasing Dozer, filling a role Knees would usually take on. “Doh-zare. I thinks tailor fit your skin too small? Looks tight.”
“This is just how I look,” Dozer bragged, flexing his muscles beneath the second skin.
Sol joined in. “Yeah, I don’t know, Dozer… Especially way back there, it does look a bit tight.”
“Whaddaya mean?” Dozer said with alarm as he spun around in a circle, trying to get a better view of his behind. The crew erupted with laughter.
Though it was great to see his team getting along, the good-natured teasing provided Cego a staunch reminder that his sharp-witted Venturian friend wasn’t there with them.
They reached the common ground to find a throng of students surrounding a large lightboard on the wall. The names of various teams were flashing onto the board.
“Challenge board,” someone said from behind Cego.
Cego turned to see Kit, the Level Sixer they’d met upon arriving. Kit was wearing a bloodred second skin with black stripes etched along each arm.
Kit addressed several of the Level Ones who had gathered on the common ground to look up at the board. “Professor Hunt told me to fill you guys in on what’s going on, especially if I see you staring out with those big, naïve whelp eyes, which is what I’m seeing now.” The dark-haired Grievar flashed a smile beneath his well-trimmed beard.
“This board is where the team challenges are posted every week,” Kit said. “Once a challenge is posted, the defending team has one full day to accept.”
Kit continued his explanation, seeing the Level Ones staring up in confusion. “Teams here at the Lyceum can challenge each other. A typical challenge is best of three fights—three members from each team matching up individually in our challenge Circles. Winner takes a chunk of the loser’s total team score. At end of cycle, you’ll not only be judged based on your individual class scores, but your team scores will decide how you rank. Most importantly, though, the lowest-scoring team gets held back from advancing to the next level. It’s a way to weed out those who aren’t performing.”
Dozer gulped loudly next to Cego.
“Keep in mind, though, most challenges are interclass,” Kit said. “You know, a Level One versus a Level One team, or a Level Three versus a Level Three. Challenging a team above or below your level involves more politics, and the scoring system is a bit more complicated for that. Take a look at your Guide to Challenges before you Level Ones do anything too crazy. Needless to say, I wouldn’t recommend challenging a Level Six team right off the bat.” Kit winked.
“Why the challenges, you ask?” Kit posed the question in a mock announcer voice. “It’s all to simulate reality out there. Those of us who graduate from the Lyceum will be doing just this—fighting over challenges. In the real world, they aren’t called challenges, of course. It’s called war. And it’s not some silly scores at stake. It’s territories, resources, farmland, food, homes, lives. Folk’s lives at stake.” Kit spoke seriously.
“These challenges give our potential Knights and Defenders prep for the world out there. To realize you aren’t fighting just for yourself—your training, studies, and wins and losses make a difference to everyone around you.”
Cego considered Kit’s words. This wasn’t like the Underground, where every kid was fighting for their own survival or to line the bit-purse of some Circle owner or patron. It was about a larger purpose.
“I expect to see some of you in one of our challenge Circles in no time,” Kit said as he walked off. “Don’t forget to get to class, though. Professors don’t take kindly to late students.”
*
Professor Kitaka was well into the second hour of his lecture and Cego could see it in the faces of his classmates. Cego had expected his Performance Augmentation class to be tiring, but not in this way. Half of the class appeared to be on the verge of falling asleep.
“Every muscle fiber in your body is connected in some way, even if it is not immediately discernible. Though the muscles in your neck are nowhere near the muscles in your foot, they too are connected…”
Kitaka was an older, sturdy-looking Grievar. Though his bald head was small, he had two massive cauliflower ears and large, penetrating yellow eyes. Kitaka spoke in a steady tone, never changing his inflection.
The large classroom was filled with several unusual pieces of equipment—weights, pulleys, tracks, cycles, stairs, wave pools, and other machines that Cego couldn’t place. The initial excitement of first entering the classroom and seeing all the machines had long since faded as Professor Kitaka’s lecture droned on.
“Breathing is something w
e do every day naturally. We never think about it throughout the course of our day, saying to ourselves every moment—now I will take a breath. We simply breathe. In. And out again. In. And out again…”
Performance Augmentation was one of the mandatory Level One classes, so all twenty four students were in attendance today, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Knees was sitting with his own team, the Jackals, right next to Shiar. Cego had tried to catch his friend’s eyes and wave him over, but Knees wouldn’t even glance over in his direction. Cego couldn’t wrap his head around it. Even though Knees had no choice in teaming up with the Jackals, how could he just sit there complacently next to Shiar, as if the two didn’t have any past? Had the Sim really scrambled Knees’ brain so much that he couldn’t remember those Jackal eyes flashing in glee as Weep crumbled under his kicks?
Sol sat just ahead of Cego. Her red braid was thrown haphazardly over one shoulder and Cego could see she was attentively taking notes on her lightdeck, even as the lecture droned into its second hour. Cego watched as Sol methodically swiped at her deck, recording clips of the lecture before moving them into meticulously labeled folders.
Cego had noticed that about Sol—she was organized in everything she did. The way she had carefully folded her sheets in Quarter D and stacked all of her gear in a neat pile. Even her fighting technique appeared organized. The single-leg combo she’d shot on Joba earlier had been by the book, as if it had been replicated directly from some SystemView instructional.
Cego glanced at Dozer sitting to his right and smiled at the contrast. His burly friend was out cold, his head folded over his lap, a pool of drool accumulating on the surface of his unused lightdeck.
Kitaka had stopped lecturing. He was staring over at Dozer. Cego stuck out his foot and prodded his friend, who snorted loudly as he woke.
Dozer stared up at Professor Kitaka, quickly muttering, “S… sorry, professor, I didn’t mean to—”
“Dozer,” Kitaka cut him off, his voice without inflection. “When I first saw that name on my class registry, I pondered what it meant. Do you know that every Grievar name has an origin and meaning? For most of the purelights in the room, it is the blood name that holds the meaning. For example, take our friend Gryfin Thurgood here…” Kitaka nodded at Gryfin sitting up front, who flashed his trademark pearly-white smile.
The Combat Codes Page 24
