The Combat Codes

by Alexander Darwin

  “And, as smart as you bit-minders here at the Codex think you are, as smart as the Governance and the Citadel thinks they are… none of you knew what happened to Cego, your glitch, until he walked right back into the doors of the Lyceum and took the Trials?” Murray asked.

  Zero nodded.

  Murray felt a knot form in his stomach. He’d brought Cego back to them. To the very folk who were planning on terminating the kid because he was some failed experiment. And now they knew. Memnon and Callen and the Governance politiks they were working for, they knew that their failed experiment had returned.

  Murray had to get back to the Lyceum. Fast.

  *

  Dozer was holding pads for Cego, warming him up for his upcoming fight.

  The Burning Fists were the first team the Whelps would need to get through, and Cego was going up against their captain, Gryfin Thurgood. Those who had faced Gryfin described it as akin to going up against an enraged Jadean bull, strong as the dark with an initial charge meant to take your head off.

  Cego tried to throw a quick one-two combination, ducking under a looping roundhouse and following up with a swift body shot into Dozer’s padding. His left arm screamed with pain as his fist made impact.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cego checked on the prep work of the other two Whelps set to fight in the first round.

  Abel was warming up with Joba, leaping in to fire a series of quick punches and kicks and then springing back out of range. They’d selected the little Kirothian to go up against Mos Aberdome, the Fist’s resident power puncher known for his notoriously thick skull. Abel’s game plan had been meticulously mapped out, just like the Whelps had done for every other upcoming fight today. He’d use his superior speed to jump in and out of Aberdome’s striking range while peppering him with leg kicks to sap his punching power.

  Mateus Winterfowl was practicing quick sprawls as Sol shot in on him.

  “That the best you got?” the purelight said as he threw his legs backward to fend off Sol’s double-leg. Sol smiled and deftly swooped in again, this time transitioning to a quick single-leg and putting Mateus on his back.

  The Whelps had selected Mateus to go up against the Burning Fist’s weakest member—Jozlyn Fritz. Fritz was known for her highly technical grappling ability, but the girl had shown holes throughout the semester in her standing game. If Mateus could prevent the takedown, he’d be able to pick Fritz apart on the feet. Cego had warned Mateus about being too cocky, though—underestimating any opponent today would be a serious misstep.

  Just as Cego threw another combo, he noticed a familiar blocky form emerge from around the corner of the prep room. Murray-ku.

  Murray smiled as he took the pads from Dozer and continued with Cego’s warm-up, just as he’d done numerous times in the barracks. Murray turned the pads to face the ground as Cego responded with a series of uppercuts.

  “Thurgood. He’s going to bring you into a clinch war; you know that, right?” Murray asked Cego.

  “Yeah. I suspected as much,” Cego said. “I’ve seen him do it to other kids.”

  “Use your dirty boxing, like this,” Murray instructed as he yanked Cego’s neck in and held one pad on the inside. Cego threw a series of uppercuts and body shots into the pad, grimacing as his left elbow buckled again.

  “You all right?” Murray asked.

  “Yeah… just a little stiff,” Cego lied. He couldn’t worry about his injury going into this.

  “You’ll want to go for a takedown after he wears you down in the clinch. Get the fight to where you feel comfortable. Don’t do that,” Murray said.

  Cego looked at Murray quizzically.

  “You need to show him you’re fine in the clinch, because that’s his best weapon. Once you take that away from him, he won’t have anything left for you. Then you can break him,” Murray said.

  Cego nodded. Classic Circle strategy. Fire with fire.

  “Don’t forget your inside knees, too,” Murray said, prompting Cego to throw sharp knees into the pad.

  “Speaking of knees,” Murray said, as he swiveled Cego around. “Is that who you’re doing this for? Either that or you’ve taken too many hits to the head… Three challenges in one darkin’ day!”

  Cego stayed silent as he continued to mix in body punches and knees.

  Murray nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “They’ll keep telling you not to do things like that. After all, it’s not in the interest of your lightpath. You’re taking a risk.”

  Cego pushed Murray out and launched a quick teep into the pad before shooting in for a single-leg. Murray half sprawled, letting Cego stand, before pulling him back into the clinch.

  “They’ll tell you not to take those risks. Do things for the greater good. Forsake the Codes,” the old Grievar said the last part with spite, tossing Cego backward.

  “What I’m saying is… you’re doing it right. Fight for what you believe in, kid.”

  Cego nodded; he didn’t know what to say. Murray was giving him a strange look.

  “I got something to talk to you about, but it can wait until after your fights,” Murray said. “I don’t want your mind wandering when you got a job to do in the Circle. Never helps.”

  Had Murray found what he was looking for? Cego couldn’t wait. “I need to know—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Murray said, stopping Cego. “You think finding out will fix everything. It won’t.”

  Cego looked down at the floor.

  “Whatever I tell you, it won’t change anything. You will still be Cego. The same dirt-encrusted kid I met down in the Deep. The same kid who fought for the weak in the slave Circles. The kid who busted through the Trials like butter and is here now prepping to fight again for what’s right. Not for the bits or for a nation—for what’s right. For the Codes.”

  Murray placed his hand on Cego’s shoulder and squeezed. “We fight so that the rest shall not have to.”

  Cego thought about what Aon Farstead had asked in his class at the start of the semester. Why was he fighting? Not for Mercuri. Not for the Daimyos. Not even for his Grievar-kin.

  He was fighting for Knees. For the Whelps. For Murray. Perhaps even for Farmer, wherever the old master was.

  “We fight so that the rest shall not have to,” Cego repeated.

  *

  Cego stood on the sidelines, trying to shake out his throbbing arm. He was already sweating beneath his bleached-white second skin. A student announcer was breaking down the challenges for the audience, laying out what was at stake in the upcoming fights. Cego wasn’t listening.

  If the plan failed, his entire team would be held back from advancing to Level Two. Everything they’d worked for this semester would be for nothing. If the plan failed, Knees would be left with Shiar and the Jackals – the trade clause they’d invoked would be repealed. All because of Cego’s plan, his need to do things the honorable way.

  His arms and legs felt heavy, his breath shallow. He looked across the grounds at the three gleaming Circles laid side by side on the tan canvas. Each Circle shone with a distinct elemental hue: the noble blue cast of auralite, the fiery glint of rubellium, and the hollow black light of onyx. Because the Whelps had gotten their pick of matchups, the Burning Fists had their choice of Circles. He wouldn’t find out which Circle he was in until the moment before he stepped into the metallic ring.

  Abel and Mateus stretched out beside Cego on the sidelines. Abel was bouncing up and down on his toes, an unending ball of energy. Cego wondered how the little Kirothian ever managed to sleep. Mateus looked nervous, his thin face even longer with the frown he wore.

  Cego tried to loosen his shoulders, bending over and draping his hand to his feet in a long stretch. He took a deep breath as he slowly stood upright, closing his eyes and trying to flush out the chatter of the crowd around him.

  Farmer’s voice echoed in his head. If you’re getting crushed, accept that you are crushed. Only then can you create your path for escape.

>   Accept it. Cego took another deep breath. He was already here fighting. There was no other path forward. He needed to accept the crushing pressure, the judging eyes of the crowd, the fate of his teammates and friends.

  The announcer called out Cego’s name, cutting through the chatter like a razor. The crowd hushed.

  Though he was only a Level One, Cego had built quite a reputation for himself during his first semester at the Lyceum. He wasn’t leading his class scores, but that was due to the singular way in which he’d finished all of his opponents during challenges so far. Submissions. As always, he’d rather put someone out with a choke than beat them bloody.

  Abel and Mateus were also called forward to their Circles. Cego nodded at the two and stepped onto the tan canvas, the floor cold against his bare feet. He jogged over to his designated Circle—onyx—keeping his gaze straight, not daring to peer into the crowd to see the familiar faces.

  Cego felt the spectral light shining down on his shoulders as he stepped within glimmering black frame. He thought back to Circles and Alloys with Professor Larkspur. The mimicry Circle in her classroom only had a fraction of the strength of the solid onyx alloy he’d just stepped into, yet even then he’d felt its overpowering influence.

  Onyx compresses time—your past, present, and future.

  “Gryfin Thurgood!” The audio boxes around the room reverberated with his opponent’s name.

  Gryfin jogged to his side of the Circle, standing across from Cego. He looked larger than Cego remembered, his thickly muscled shoulders rippling beneath his second skin. He ran his hand through his golden hair and cracked his neck left, then right, keeping his eyes across the Circle directly on Cego. He smiled broadly, and some adoring girls in the stands screeched his name.

  Cego didn’t have anything against Gryfin personally. In fact, of all the purelights in the class, Thurgood was one of the better ones. He’d never directly taunted Cego or any of the lacklights like Shiar would.

  Gryfin was complicit, though. He was the product of centuries of purelight breeding—the Thurgood family was the elite of the elite; only the best in their line were ever given permission to produce offspring. Each of Gryfin’s distinct features—his chiseled jaw, his broad shoulders, his block-like fists, his tree-trunk thighs—was artificially selected for. All for one sole purpose: winning.

  Why should Thurgood get all the glory when there were lacklights living in the dregs, fighting fruitlessly in the slave Circles?

  A strange sensation crept across Cego’s body, making the hairs on his neck stand up. He suddenly felt disconnected from reality. He was watching himself from the stands; he could see the rings under his eyes, his limp arm hanging by his side, the strange dark light emanating from the onyx Circle surrounding him.

  Cego squared up with Thurgood but kept his hands down at his side in his usual pre-fight stance. He saw Abel and Mateus to either side of him in their Circles, also prepared to begin.

  The tone rang out, a high-pitched buzzer that transformed the coiled combatants into creatures of action.

  Gryfin morphed as he charged across the Circle. All of his niceties fell aside, his polite manner, his charming smile. The boy’s eyes blazed with purposeful rage. This is what Gryfin was born for, centuries of purelight breeding—for this very purpose. He was put in this Circle to destroy Cego.

  Cego brought his hands up like a matador just as the Thurgood boy was about to crash into him. He swiveled to the side, dodging a barrage of lightning-fast punches. Gryfin followed, a torrent of energy, sending more punches at Cego, one grazing his brow and snapping his head to the side. Another elbow followed, catching Cego’s shoulder and sliding up his collar to slam into his neck. A knee slipped through, blasting into Cego’s midsection.

  Gryfin’s attack was seamless, without any moment for Cego to counter, think, or even breathe. Cego had no choice but to step inside and clinch up with his opponent, hunkering into him with the hope of slowing down the barrage. But the clinch was where Gryfin thrived.

  Gryfin pulled Cego in violently with a plum clinch, yanking his head forward into waiting knees. Traditional strategy told Cego to battle for the plum, to swivel his hands inward to gain the controlling points at the back of his opponent’s skull. Cego knew that fight was already lost, though—Gryfin was a master of the clinch. He’d seen the boy in class. Thurgood was an expert at regaining the hold to throw devastating knees and elbows during the transitions.

  Cego let Gryfin have the clinch. He wouldn’t fight the current; he’d go along with it. It wouldn’t be easy, though. The boy had freakish strength. Every inch of his body felt as if it were chiseled from stone.

  Gryfin followed another knee to the body with a quick elbow that sliced across Cego’s face, gashing him just below the eye and throwing his head to the side. Cego instinctively shot in for the takedown, but Gryfin easily stiff-armed him.

  The current was taking Cego away. He needed to do something.

  Cego slammed his forehead into Gryfin’s chest, creating some space, and followed up with two quick body shots, his left elbow buckling on impact. Gryfin grunted and threw two alternating knees. One skimmed off of Cego’s elbow into his ribs again with a thud. Cego couldn’t take many more of those.

  The two traded body shots and knees, rounding the onyx Circle as Gryfin yanked Cego forward and then pushed him backward into the range of snapping elbows. Though Cego kept his hands up and angled his body to avoid the knees, several more broke through into his stomach and ribs. He could feel his organs groaning with the sustained damage.

  Cego slammed the crown of his head against Gryfin’s chest again, blocking a knee and then following up with two quick body shots and an uppercut through the middle that caught Gryfin under the nose. A stream of blood gushed down onto Cego’s matted hair. Gryfin still held on to the clinch.

  Cego would make him pay for being a purelight. For having it so easy—getting his path handed to him on a silver platter.

  He stomped Gryfin’s foot with his heel, smashing down on the thin bones in the boy’s toes. He slammed his head repeatedly into Gryfin’s chest, aiming to shatter the boy’s sternum. He threw more shots into Gryfin’s ribs and uppercuts to blast through into his chin. Gryfin responded every step of the way, continuing to hold Cego in the clinch, throwing a steady stream of battering knees and elbows in response.

  Soon, Cego didn’t know whether it was Gryfin’s blood or his own covering his shoulders, the slick ichor painting his second skin red, as if he had suddenly become a Level Sixer. Cego slammed another shot into Gryfin’s body. He felt a rib crack. Gryfin groaned but kept his clinch tight.

  As blood blurred his field of vision, Cego forgot why he was here. He forgot about Abel and Mateus battling in the Circles beside him. He forgot about Sol, Dozer, and Joba coaching from the sidelines. He forgot about Murray and his professors watching from the crowd and the rest of the Lyceum students appraising his performance. He forgot about Professor Aon’s question: why do we fight? Cego even forgot about Knees.

  Cego spat blood from his mouth and slammed the ball of his heel into Gryfin’s foot again. For some reason, Cego listened for the crackling of bones, as if he could hear each individual bone shatter. Cego threw more rapid body shots. He felt like he was working a heavy bag now; he smiled through his bloody teeth as he slammed his fists into the hunk of meat in front of him, digging his knuckles in to soften up the boy’s innards.

  Cego could feel something rising within him, trying to escape. Something forgotten but vivid, like the pungent smell of jarsmooth flowers from the Island or the memory of scraping his knee against the slippery tidal rocks.

  He could hear Gryfin gasping for breath. Cego savored his own breath, taking a deep one through his nose to let the boy hear it before slamming his fist into his solar plexus. He would suck the life from his opponent.

  Cego continued to pound at Gryfin’s body, ignoring the knees that desperately came in response, letting them openly smash into own bo
dy. The two traded blow for blow. Gryfin was a purelight, bred for fighting, trained to become a champion. He was fighting for his bloodline, for his prestige, perhaps even for his nation. But Cego was combat incarnate. He wasn’t born for combat—he was combat. Cego would not give in, no matter how much damage he took; he was willing to risk it all.

  Gryfin was falling then. The boy was on his back and Cego was following, continuing to pound his fists into him. Gryfin was lying there, completely still, and Cego was on top of him, his fists digging into his body, now a bloody mass of flesh staining the canvas. Cego heard the buzzer ring; he noticed the spectral light dying down. But he felt the tendrils of darkness seeking a path out of him, reaching to consume Gryfin’s body.

  Hands were grabbing at Cego, pulling him off the lifeless boy. He looked up and saw Sol’s face, her sunflower eyes staring at him like he was some sort of animal.

  Cego could feel his lips curl up. He was smiling.

  *

  Cego floated in the inky waters again.

  He struggled with all his might against the weight of the water bearing down on him. His eyes bulged as if they would burst, water straining behind them into his skull.

  He clawed his way upward, slowly climbing a pillar of bubbles, rising until he could touch the light, reaching with his outstretched arms, bursting through to the world above.

  Cego’s hands slammed into a cold, hard surface. He traced his fingers along an invisible wall, surrounding him, trapping him within. He could see outside of his prison—the wisp of light was hovering out there, peering in at him and illuminating the craggy grey walls behind it.

  He needed to get out.

  Cego dashed toward one end of the invisible wall, slamming his shoulder against it. The entire world shook around him. He propelled himself backward, bouncing off the other side of the barrier, creating another shock wave, a vibration deep in his bones.

  Cego thrust himself forward again, and with a final explosive push, his world was suddenly tipping over. He felt the ground rush up to meet him amidst an explosion of invisible shards, gnashing at his skin like a swarm of angry hornets.