The Combat Codes (10 page)

“You are thinking. Hesitating. Do not think,” Farmer advised stoically, snapping Cego back to his present sparring session with Sam.

Sam was still hunkered down in his defensive position.
Why was he
stalling?

Cego took action and swiveled to Sam’s back, sinking his hooks in and flattening his brother to the ground. Cego had practiced the attack thousands of times. Executing it was as simple as placing one foot in front of the other.

He snaked his hand across Sam’s neck and locked on the choke, squeezing until his brother slapped the canvas in submission. Cego rolled away and faced his brother as he sat up.

“You need to try to escape before I’m so far in,” Cego said in frustration.

“I know,” Sam said, looking down at the canvas. “I tried to.”

Though Sam was the smallest of the three brothers, he usually fought like a cornered Island mongoose, clawing for survival even against impossible odds. Lately, though, Sam had been giving up.

“You didn’t try. You haven’t been trying for some time now.” Cego raised his voice as he stood up over his brother. “How many times have we fought? I know when you’re trying.”

“I did,” Sam responded listlessly again, looking at the ground. “You’re just better than I am.”

Cego felt the hair stand up at the back of his neck as he faced off with Sam. Farmer had taught the boys to leave emotion out of the Circle, but Cego couldn’t help it; he felt the heat rising in his chest.

Maybe it was because Sam was hurting Cego’s own advancement—he wouldn’t learn anything against an unresisting opponent. They trained to get better. And now he’d hit a standstill.

“What’s wrong with you?” Cego yelled at his brother. “Don’t you want to get stronger?!”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Maybe Cego was angry because Silas had left. Silas had always tested Cego’s abilities to the fullest—making him work for every inch of ground.

“Silas is gone; he left us!” Cego shouted at Sam. “He went on the Path to get away from you and all your annoying questions.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the eldest brother.

Cego felt the anger continuing to build within him, his body shivering as he screamed. “You’ve been weak, Sam. You were holding Silas back. That’s why he left!”

Sam charged at Cego, his nostrils flaring, throwing a flurry of punches as he came in. Cego managed to block one strike, but another came through and snapped his head back violently.

Cego put his hand to his mouth, tasting the blood on his tongue. He missed that. He hadn’t taken a hit like that since Silas had left.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Cego said, smiling at Sam through his bloody teeth. Cego raised his hands and stalked toward Sam.

Sam wasn’t smiling.

Cego feinted in with a quick jab and followed up with an elbow that sliced across Sam’s brow. Cego pulled his brother into a clinch and threw a quick knee to the midsection. Sam responded with a head butt, slamming his forehead into Cego’s sternum, knocking him backward.

“There you go!” Cego yelled. He spat blood onto the canvas. Farmer had taught them to respect that canvas, having the brothers methodically clean it after every session.

Cego was still angry. Maybe it was tasting blood for the first time in so long. Maybe he was angry that Silas had left them. Maybe he just wanted to feel something—that fire stoked in his belly, feeding off of his brother’s aggression.

Cego fired a lunging cross at his brother, expecting him to dodge it, and then came under with a quick body shot that thudded into Sam’s ribs. Sam grimaced and looped his arm around Cego’s back, shooting his hip into him and tossing Cego to the canvas with a well-timed o-goshi throw.

“There! See?” Cego yelled up from the ground. “This is how we sharpen each other! This is how we get better!”

Arry let out a high-pitched howl.

“What are you even talking about?!” Sam yelled, standing over Cego now. “Get better for what? What’s the point of all this?”

Cego was suddenly aware that Farmer was watching the heated bout silently from the sideline. He felt his face flush with shame—he’d gone out of bounds, screaming and spitting in their sacred ironwood Circle. Cego sat up on the canvas and looked at the old master, steadying his breath.

Farmer nodded at Cego, repeating Sam’s question in his baritone voice. “What is the point of all this?”

Cego breathed out slowly, lying on the canvas, letting his adrenaline fade.
What was he doing?
He didn’t have any reason to be so angry at Sam. Sam hadn’t done anything wrong. He wasn’t the reason Silas had left. They were brothers—and he only had one left on the Island.

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

“Yes, I know. I’ve heard it a thousand times,” Sam said, still heated. The little boy directed his eyes at Farmer now. “We fight so that the rest shall not have to. We’re training to take the Path.”

Cego nodded. “Yes, Sam.”

Sam wasn’t convinced. “But why are we fighting, really? We’ve been training our whole lives to take the Path, but how do even know if something is actually out there? I’ve never seen it, have you? What if Silas swam out there and there wasn’t anything but more water?”

Cego looked at his little brother. This is why Sam had been acting so peculiar lately. He didn’t believe. He didn’t think the Path lead anywhere. Sam didn’t think Silas was alive.

Cego waited for Farmer to respond, but again the old master stayed silent. He was testing Cego—he wanted him to answer Sam.

“How do we know the sky or the bottom of the sea exists? I’ve never climbed high enough to feel the clouds or swam down to touch the bottom of the deepest trenches, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. The end to the Path is the same. We have to believe it’s there, just like Silas did,” Cego said.

Sam looked down at the canvas, a tear welling up in the corner of his eye. He breathed out slowly.

Cego stood up and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry I pressed you like that,” Cego said. “I’m not sure what got into me.”

Sam nodded. He looked at Farmer and then back to Cego, his hay-flower eyes sparkling with wetness.

“I’m sorry too. I just miss Silas,” Sam conceded. “I’ll try harder next time, I promise.”

“Good,” Cego said. He wanted to tell Sam he missed Silas too.

Cego looked to Farmer for instruction. The old master nodded again, and Cego knew what to do.

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.