The Combat Codes

by Alexander Darwin

  Murray continued on his way, cutting off the main thoroughfare into a side alley between two of the massive buildings. He passed several neon signs with stairs that led to lower-level establishments—stores hawking goods and products of some sort, more useless items that these creatures collected.

  Though Murray had only come this way once before, he remembered the path to Mercuri’s Codex clearly. He’d visited the place when he was under Coach’s tutelage. Out on a learning mission, as Coach called them—exploring the city with his team to see what and who they were fighting for.

  As a young Grievar Knight, fresh out of the Lyceum, Murray had tried to keep an open mind. Seeing the makers at ArkTech, the hawkers in the mercantile districts, the clerics in the medwards—Murray could rationalize how those Daimyos had a place in the world. They made medicines, sold goods, created foods. Even if he didn’t agree with how the Daimyos lived their lives, he had a basic understanding of why they were necessary in society.

  When Coach had the team visit the Codex, though, Murray hadn’t been able to fathom why they needed those… things.

  Though bit-minders were Daimyos by breed, they were the farthest on the spectrum from the Grievar. Which is why Murray despised them.

  To a Grievar, a body should be a sacred tool, a sword to be sharpened throughout life. A Grievar’s physical prowess was their link to the world around them—how they communicated with it, how they stacked up in society. Bit-minders didn’t even use their bodies. They were nearly mechs.

  How could bit-minders be trusted if they had no physical stake, no roots planted in the earth? The bit-minders had no alligences to any nation. They sold their technology to the highest bidder, feeding off of the ongoing Grievar arms race. They had a Codex planted in nearly every major city around the world, where they programmed the pods, the sweepers, the spectrals, biometrics, lightboards, SystemView. And the Sim. The bit-minders had created the Sim.

  Murray emerged from the alley and crossed another major intersection, keeping his hood down. There it was across the street—a short, flat steel building, out of place in comparison to the towering skyscrapers around it. The Codex looked like a building that had been chopped down to a stump.

  In a sense, the Codex was as tall as the surrounding skyscrapers, but most of its floors were belowground. A network of System nodes growing beneath the earth like a maze of roots.

  Murray shivered as he walked into the Codex through the steel sliding doors, emerging into a square, sterile room of polished black-metal walls. The room clearly was not built for a Grievar—Murray needed to duck his head to avoid brushing against the ceiling.

  In fact, the room didn’t seem like it was made to welcome any sort of visitor. It was empty, as if he’d walked into an abandoned building. No receptionist for greeting or even security forces—just a large lightboard up against the wall in front of him, staring at him in silence. He knew they were watching him.

  Murray took a deep breath and walked up to the board, placing his head in front of the display panel to let it scan him.

  The spectral light flashed in front of Murray’s eyes, flickering back and forth. The light faded and a beep sounded. A previously invisible elliptical door swished open across the room from him.

  Murray entered a brightly lit hallway with no doors or windows, made up of the same obsidian metal. With no direction, he began to walk down the corridor, listen to the echoing of his own footsteps.

  Murray realized he was sweating. He’d barely broken a sweat before his fight at Lampai—and yet here, with no discernible threat, Murray could feel his heart rate increasing, his palms getting clammy.

  Another previously invisible door swished open to Murray’s right as if it had been ready for him. He was being herded, like some rat in a maze. Murray ducked into the doorway, entering a tiny room, the ceiling so low that he needed to crouch inside of it.

  The room suddenly dropped, Murray’s stomach dropping along with it as he braced his hands against the ceiling to steady himself. He could feel the transporter twisting rapidly in different directions, moving through the intricate network of the Codex. He imagined himself like a piece of food being digested, sent through the inner tract of some gargantuan beast.

  Finally, the transporter stopped and the door swished open. He exited to another unmarked, sterile hallway, completely silent. Sweat was pouring off of his brow. Murray stopped and steadied himself, trying to take a few breaths.

  Murray walked for several minutes down the blank hallway before another little door opened to his right, goading him to enter. There was nowhere else to go.

  Murray ducked into a small, circular room, this one with no perceptible light beyond a soft glow at one end.

  “Murray Pearson, Grievar brood,” a monotone voice said. “Controlled birth, year eight twenty-one, Underground, Zone Three Medward. Purelight heritage, father Mikros Pearson, mother Samelia,” the voice continued.

  Murray walked into the dark room toward the glowing light.

  “Age, fifty-two. Height, six feet ten inches. Weight, three hundred seventy pounds. Heart rate, one hundred ninety-seven beats per minute. Blood pressure—”

  “STOP!” Murray yelled. “Stop with this darkin’ blather.”

  The voice stopped.

  “Blather? I merely speak the truth, Murray Pearson. Data. Every moment we live in this world, the data reveal the truth.”

  Murray shivered as the creature came into view. It floated within a glowing tube, staring out at him with two tiny purple eyes.

  It looked like a deformed baby, with tiny vestigial arms and legs and a massive bald head. The creature’s head made up the majority of its body mass, a pulsing bundle of veins and nerves.

  “Blood pressure, two hundred over one hundred fifty-two… Do I scare you, Grievar?” the bit-minder asked Murray, its mouth not moving but its voice reverberating through audio boxes planted around the room. “I am so small compared to you. Three hundred seventy pounds of muscle, built to rend limbs and crush bones. Why would you be scared of me?”

  “Not scared. I just don’t… can’t believe something like you actually exists,” Murray admitted.

  “Exists. What a strange word,” the bit-minder said. “Do you exist more than me because you have a body that does as you tell it? You tell your body to walk around, to punch, to kick, to eat, to defecate, and you think, with your simple mind, that you have control. That you are free to do as you wish. And yet I, floating here, trapped in this space, who cannot walk the ground that you walk, have no control, no freedom to follow a lightpath. Is that what you think, Grievar?”

  “I don’t think any of that,” Murray said. “I’m here because Aon Farstead told me you could help.”

  “Yes. I know this already, of course. Help. You, with your fine-tuned body and your fists, you need help from me—floating here so helplessly. Why is that?” the bit-minder asked. “Perhaps what you think of as control is not really so. Perhaps your actions, where and when you move your body, are not entirely your own idea. After all, like everyone on this planet, you follow the light. And where does that light come from—who determines where that light shines?”

  “I control my own actions,” Murray growled, knowing what the creature was suggesting. “Just like how I can decide to plant my fist through this tube of yours.”

  “The path is already set for you, Murray Pearson,” the thing said. “You might think of me as small—helpless, even. But you are the ant, following a trail of crumbs that we’ve set for you. You won’t deviate from that path; you won’t harm me as your kind typically threatens to do. You need to follow your path, eat up your little crumbs, and keep moving forward. Isn’t that so?”

  Murray wanted to prove the bit-minder wrong. He needed to forcefully steady his hand.

  “You’re right,” Murray said. “Whatever you say.”

  “As long as we know which side of the glass each of us is on, Murray Pearson, I can help you,” the bit-minder said. “We are no
t so different, as strange as it seems for me to say so. I know your kind thinks of all bit-minders as the same, one indistinguishable from another, but just like you, we have designations. My real name is a list of numbers too complicated for your simple Grievar brain… but you can refer to as me Zero.”

  “Zero it is,” Murray said.

  “Aon Farstead has informed me that we are interested in a particular point of System activity within the Citadel, is that so? That is why you are in the Codex, where I can see you are clearly uncomfortable, as you’ve already lost seven point three ounces of water weight since entering our doors,” Zero said with precision.

  Murray wiped the sweat pouring off his brow. “How did Aon get in contact with you? He can barely make it out of the Lyceum.”

  “Your Commander is more than meets the eye,” Zero replied. “There are not many Grievar, or even other Daimyos, that command the respect of our kind. Yet Aon Farstead is one of them.”

  “Don’t know if I’d want the respect of your kind,” Murray replied. “And yes, I want to know what’s going on with the Sim. How can a Trial-taker, my kid Cego… How did he know it all so well?”

  “The Sim. It’s been an asset to Mercuri’s Grievar program over the past decade; isn’t that so?” Zero asked.

  Murray wished this brain in a jar would just answer his questions. He knew he needed to play its game, though. “The Training Sim lets our Knights practice more often without getting hurt. I’ll give you that much. But the Trial Sim is different. I’ve seen it break kids. Too many times, I’ve seen a kid come out of that thing and there just isn’t anything left. Like they’ve been burnt from the inside.”

  “Some Grievar minds, especially those still developing, are not strong enough to recover from an immersed Sim experience. An unfortunate side effect,” Zero said dismissively. “But for the good of the nation, the Sim has improved Mercuri’s winning percentage; isn’t that so? Isn’t that what the Grievar at the Citadel wanted?”

  Murray shook his head wearily. For the good of the nation, again with that. “Yes… that is what the Citadel wanted. But we both know the Citadel is being run by the Governance at this point, so really we’re talkin’ what you Daimyos wanted.”

  “Semantics. Grievar fighting for Daimyos. Daimyos working for the Grievar. Though technically we are Daimyos, we bit-minders choose not to participate in such senseless politics,” Zero said. “It is beside the point; we designed the Sim programming to improve Mercuri’s win percentage, and that’s exactly what it did.”

  Murray was growing tired of this runaround. “Your point?”

  “You grow tired of me?” Zero said, as if reading Murray’s mind. “Your heart rate has slowed by four percent, while your pupils have diminished in size by two millimeters. Perhaps we should end this meeting.”

  “No, no,” Murray backtracked. “I just want to know what happened to Cego.”

  “As I was telling you. The first Sim, the Trainer, was designed to improve the Knights. The second Sim, the Trials, was made to test Grievar brood entering the Lyceum. The programs were certainly helpful, but they weren’t enough. Though Mercuri became more competitive, they weren’t dominating as they set out to do. That’s why there was a third Sim being tested simultaneously.”

  Murray looked at Zero’s tiny purple eyes. He could feel his heart getting faster again. “Third Sim?”

  “Yes. Something that would change the game entirely, not push a nation forward inches at a time like the other two Sims. Something that would give a nation the clear advantage, making their Grievar second to none. We called it the Cradle.”

  Murray couldn’t help himself. “You Daimyos are always trying to make the Grievar better. Breeding programs, stims, and now the darkin’ Cradle. Call it what you will. When will you learn that it’s not some fancy new technology that makes a champion? It’s hard work, a warrior’s spirit, honor. Artemis Halberd, probably the greatest that has ever lived, he was born without training in any of your Sims,” Murray stated.

  “Yes. Exactly the point, Murray Pearson. Artemis Halberd was born without any of the Sims. But he is a rarity. For every Artemis Halberd the Citadel produces, there are thousands of Grievar that are not champions. Mercuri’s wasted bits, resources, opportunities,” Zero said.

  “Wasted?!” Murray yelled, his face up against the tube. “Do you know the kind of work our Grievar put in? The blood and sweat that soak the training mats every day? How the dark could you even understand?”

  Zero was silent for a moment, staring at Murray as his breath steamed up the tube’s glass. “Now, there, does that feel better? Heart rate two hundred twenty, two hundred nineteen, two-hundred eighteen… I find it so strange how you beasts need to revert to fits of rage. Like some sort of pressure valve release. Are you ready for me to continue again?”

  “Yes,” Murray said blankly. He was already so sick of this creature. He had to get what he needed and get out.

  “As I was detailing before your fit,” Zero said. “That was the problem with the first two Sim programs. They were already too late. The Trials were designed to test young students entering the Lyceum. The Trainer was made to test Knights before they entered the Circle. But both were too late. They didn’t reach the Grievar until after the formative processes in their brains had already solidified—the wiring and chemistry that determine the difference between a run-of-the-mill Grievar Knight and a true champion. The Third Sim, the Cradle—it overcomes this problem. It starts its work at the very beginning. It will make every Grievar that goes through it a champion.”

  “That’s impossible,” Murray said. “Distinct body types, multiple strengths and weaknesses, quality of the opposition—every Grievar is different.”

  “Not impossible, Murray Pearson,” Zero said. “Statistically improbable, correct. However, with the Cradle, we cut out that statistical improbability.”

  “Clearly, it’s not working,” Murray responded. “You say the program started over a decade ago? Kiroth’s still ahead of us. I don’t see champions being churned out of the Citadel in the droves…”

  “Don’t you see?” Zero asked. “Of course you don’t. Your kind never sees what is truly in front of them. Grievar are always living second by second, getting thrown helplessly down the rapids of time. We bit-minders, we are able to step out of that stream of time and truly see cause and effect. Which is what the Cradle is—an experiment in time. It enables the Citadel to truly use time to their advantage—without any wasted years. But it requires patience. Just about thirteen years, in fact.”

  “Thirteen years. Why does that…” Murray’s eyes widened.

  “Cego was one of the Cradle’s first subjects. Birthed and raised from childhood within the Sim,” Zero said without inflection.

  Somehow, in the back of his mind, Murray had known it. It all made sense now. Everything about Cego made sense. But that didn’t mean the words weren’t shocking to hear. How could the Citadel knowingly be part of a program like this?

  “How. Tell me how they do it,” Murray said, his voice like ice. “Where do they keep the kids… the babies?”

  “You were badly injured twenty-two years ago, Murray Pearson,” Zero said. “Severed vertebrae—you spent almost a year in the medward. You were in stasis. Do you remember that time?”

  “No. What does that have to do with this?” Murray growled.

  “The Cradle uses a similar protocol that the clerics use to put Grievar in stasis. Except the clerics run very base code to keep the brain occupied and working for such long periods of time while the body repairs. The Cradle is far more complex—it not only keeps the brain occupied, it enhances it.”

  Murray thought about the Knight suspended in the gelatinous liquid in the medward. In a tube, much like Zero was floating in, right in front of his eyes. “You mean to say there are tubes of Grievar babies floating somewhere? You’re growing them like that?”

  “Put in very simple terms that you can understand… yes,” Zero said.


  Murray could feel his body trembling. How had it gotten to this? How could the very folk that he had fought for, given his lightpath for, be a part of something like this?

  “Where… where are they kept?” Murray asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “Unfortunately, I cannot disclose that particular bit of information, Murray Person,” Zero said. “Our assets are very valuable. Many nations have a vested interest in their proper development.”

  “If Cego was one of the first… why’d I end up finding him clawing his way through some slave Circle in the Deep? Why wasn’t he being pampered at the Citadel, getting groomed to be Mercuri’s next champ?”

  “Ah. And that’s how we’ve arrived at the present,” Zero said. “Cego was an anomaly. He was birthed into the Cradle before some newer modifications were made to the Sim code. There were certain… conditions included in the program that were determined to be superfluous to winning, which have since been cut out. Because of that, Cego’s lightpath was to be terminated, as we determined it was statistically improbable he would become a champion.”

  “Terminated? Don’t darkin’ tell me you’re saying…” Murray growled.

  “It’s all data, Murray Pearson; why can’t you see that? Whereas you see lives, we see numbers, statistics. Nothing more. In fact, a large percentage of our Cradle subjects are terminated before fruition.”

  Murray was speechless. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “As I said—the Cradle is only made to produce champions. The perfect Grievar. Those subjects that are determined to have imperfection… well, they cannot be simply released into the world. They need to be wiped clean.”

  “Why is Cego alive, then?” Murray heard himself ask. He felt like he could hear his voice from afar, a distant echo, as if he were floating in the vat beside the bit-minder.

  “There was a glitch. The first version of the Cradle—it had some bad code, which we’ve since eradicated. Somehow, it shut itself down. It released Cego into the world. The real world. One he was never meant to live in.”