The Combat Codes (20 page)

*

Murray couldn’t help but shiver as he watched Cego up on the lightboard. He’d watched too many fall to the Ice over the years.

Murray was constantly surprised at the kid’s ingenuity. Slipping out of the gi like that and actually bringing the Guardian to the ground. He’d only seen a handful of kids ever get the Guardian to even waver. Even the giant blond boy from the outer rings hadn’t mounted any real offense like Cego had.

The first stage of these Trials—the Ice, they called it—was all about each kid’s reaction to adversity. When put up against a nearly immovable opponent and the cold frost, how would each react?

Murray sat in a circular room full of Citadelians, mostly nervous Scouts who had their careers riding on the success of their talent in the Trials today. Even Command made a point to watch the Trials every year.

There were hundreds of lightboards in the room, each tuned in to the Trial of a different kid. Some of the boards had gone dark for those that were out of the running already.

Some of the kids hadn’t even made it to the Circle—they’d succumbed to the Ice, shivering and curling up on the cold tundra grounds. Others had tried relentlessly to take the Guardian down. Even after getting slammed to the ice countless times, they never changed their strategy.

Murray glanced over at Callen Albright, who was staring at Cego’s lightboard with disgust. The man had expected Cego to fail from the start.

For some, like Dakar Pugilio, who had already polished off a cask of mead, the Trials were pure entertainment. The Commander of Justice slapped the side of his chair as he downed another glass, his eyes intently watching Cego’s struggle beneath the weight of the Guardian.

“You picked a good one this year, brother Murray,” Dakar shouted. “Dark horse indeed!”

“The lacklight got lucky,” Callen sneered. “Wasn’t too smart, either, with his little maneuver there. In real combat, he’d freeze to death, crushed under his opponent.”

“That’s the point of the Trial.” Dakar straightened his back in his chair as he glowered at Callen. “Murray’s boy took a risk. He made a proper sacrifice to take the Guardian down. That’s admirable.”

“When Mercuri’s Knights are fighting for us in Circles around the world, do we want them to be admirable? Or do we want them to win? Perhaps they all should make the sacrifice of dignity like you’ve clearly done long ago, Pugilio,” Callen retorted.

Dakar stood up, red-faced. “You gutless worm, why don’t we—”

“Enough,” High Commander Memnon said from his seat in the center of the room. “We are here to watch the Trials, not participate in senseless arguments. Sit down, Dakar.”

Dakar slowly sank back into his seat, glowering.

“Your boy fared well in this Trial, Murray. But we’ll see how he does in the Arena,” Callen said. He was the type to always get the last word in.

Murray didn’t respond, keeping his eyes on Cego’s lightboard above. Cego was still pinned beneath the Guardian, struggling to escape from beneath the bulk of his opponent. His efforts would be fruitless, though; a Guardian was not just any other opponent.

The kid didn’t know the truth about the Trials. The fact that they were part of the Sim, Daimyo-tech designed to replicate real combat in a variety of environments.

Not that the Trials didn’t feel completely real. The Sim was seamless—the pain Cego was feeling right now, getting crushed against the cold ice by the Guardian on top of him, it was completely real in his head. Though any physical wounds Cego sustained in the simulation would be gone when he woke, many kids were plagued for years with mental scars from their Trials.

The Guardian was a part of the Sim. It was a near-perfect machine of combat, its only flaws purposeful parts of the code. The Guardian could appear in any number of forms—huge and immovable as a Desovian Juggernaut or wispy and untouchable as a Besaydian Vapoeria. Though the Guardian wasn’t real, it felt real when it was breaking your arms or choking the life out of you.

Murray felt something gnawing at him as he watched Cego succumb to the crushing pressure and the frigid temperature. He’d grown attached to the kid over the past few months.

Murray had told himself he wouldn’t do it again. Invest himself in one of these kids. Watch them go from scrawny, dirt-covered urchins to proud Grievar, filled with confidence and hopes of becoming a Knight someday. He’d trained countless kids in his barracks, just as he’d trained Cego, watching them harness the techniques and teachings he had passed down.

They had all broken.

Of all the talent Murray had recruited over the past decade, one boy named Tarick had gotten the furthest in Trials. The kid had made it through all the stages. But he’d still broken.

Murray could vividly remember visiting Tarick in the medward for the next month, the boy feverishly screaming out in his sleep. The kid hadn’t been able to wake up. The Sim was too powerful—it could trap minds within those strange foreign environments. Eventually, Tarick’s body had given way.

After Tarick, Murray had sworn he wouldn’t get attached again. He’d keep doing what the Citadel forced on him, but he wouldn’t invest himself in their sick experiments. The whole thing—digging up broken kids from the Deep, building them up, and breaking them again during the Trials. Just to test them. To see if they had what it takes to become a Knight.

The worst part of it was the Sim. Grievar using Daimyo tech. High Commander Memnon had worked with the bit-minders to develop the technology as another weapon to give Mercuri’s Grievar the edge. A way to keep their Knights training day and night without wearing out. A new tool to test his Knights in various foreign environments from the comfort of the Citadel’s walls.

They expanded the Sim from training environments for the Knights to the Trials. The Citadel didn’t want its newest and most promising students to be physically injured going into the Lyceum, so they put them through the Sim. Within the virtual environment, they could probe at every potential weakness a Trial-taker might have.

A few of the smaller nations like Besayd still ran live Trials, but Mercuri had long advanced past those times. The Sim was more efficient and, in some ways, more brutal. It got inside the kids’ heads.

Now, Murray watched helplessly as another of his kids was broken. Though Cego was strong, Tarick had also been strong.

Cego’s lightboard screen above wavered. It wasn’t the screen itself that was shifting—the Sim was changing. The frosty tundra began to fade around Cego’s inert body. The Guardian on top of Cego shimmered and faded as well, just another part of the Sim. Another illusion of the bit-minders. A theatre of light and dark, particles playing their parts to simulate reality.

Soon, only Cego remained on the screen, a small boy floating in a sea of darkness.

*

Cego’s eyes fluttered open.

Instinctively, he thrust his hips backward, shrimping out from the immovable weight he believed to still be mounted on top of him. There was no resistance, though. His opponent was gone. He was alone in the darkness.

Cego stood gingerly, his body beaten and bruised from getting thrown against the ice so many times. He put his hand to his cheek. His skin was raw, ripped up from the man’s gi grinding against it.

Had he failed the Trials? Though Cego had initiated a takedown and thrown his opponent off balance, he had ended up on bottom. Crushed. Perhaps this is where they transferred the kids who didn’t pass the Trials, keeping them in the dark until the rest had finished.

Cego crept forward in the darkness, his eyes eagerly searching for even the slightest prick of light, his ears perked up for any sound beyond his own rapid breathing.

Though his senses had little to work with, he sought out every detail of the world around him. The floor was covered in thick cobwebs, like soft tufts of grass beneath Cego’s naked feet. His vat-hide boots were gone.

Cego took a deep breath. He savored the air in his lungs. Warm, thick air. He certainly wasn’t on the icy tundra any longer.

He listened to his heartbeat. It was heavier than usual—he could feel the blood pumping in his arms, at the base of his skull.

As he focused, Cego began to see the darkness. Maybe it was just in his mind—it certainly did not become lighter—yet he could see its form now, the empty corridor a flat plane in front of him.

Just as light has form, so does darkness
, said Farmer.

Suddenly, the darkness was pierced by a glowing wisp that ignited in front of Cego’s eyes, casting shadows along the long stone walls. A spectral.

Though the wisp didn’t look any different from the millions floating across Mercuri, Cego
knew
the spectral hovering in front of his face. It was the same spectral that had kept him company in his little cell down in the Deep for so long. It was the same spectral that had appeared in Thaloo’s yard on the day he’d faced off with Weep. This was
his
spectral. Cego could feel its light, and somehow, it felt unique, like the warm embrace of an old friend.

The spectral slowly floated away from him, pulsing as if it were bidding him to follow.

“Where are you taking me, little one?” Cego whispered as he stepped forward. Speaking with the wisp again somehow felt right, and it certainly wasn’t the strangest thing going on in the Trials.

As Cego moved farther down the corridor, he noticed a faint thumping. At first, he thought the rhythm was his own heightened heartbeat—he half expected some horror to leap from the shadows ahead. Cego realized the thumping wasn’t coming from within, though. The webs along the wall were bouncing to the rhythm. The beat became louder as he continued on; he could feel the vibrations in the floor beneath him.

The little spectral stopped several meters ahead of Cego. The wisp cast its light on a dead end, a solid stone wall standing in his path. Was he trapped in here? Could he have missed some ulterior passage hidden by the thick cobwebs?

The spectral pulsed, with urgency this time, getting brighter for a moment and then dimming as if it had exhausted its energy. The thumping was louder here, Cego could feel the reverberations coming from beyond the wall. He stepped forward to stand beside the little wisp, placing his hand against the stone.

What he’d thought was a wall slid open with a sudden swish, showering Cego in light and noise.

Cego stepped forward as the spectral catapulted out into the bright light. He watched as the wisp careened upward toward the blue above, joining thousands of other spectrals swirling across the sky like tufts of dandelion hair.

Cego lowered his gaze from the piercing blue sky and saw people everywhere, standing all around him on elevated rafters, slamming their hands against the metal frames set in front of them.

Though the arena wasn’t quite as big as Lampai, it was far louder. The sound was overbearing, as if the stadium itself had a heartbeat, a forceful pulse that Cego could feel deep in his bones.

Cego peered into the stands, looking for any familiar faces. Was Murray up there somewhere, watching over him?

Cego directed his attention in front of him. A glistening steel Circle was planted at the center of the arena’s dirt floor. It pulsed with a luminous blue glow.
Auralite
alloy.

A man, covered head to toe in a black second skin, stood at the center of the Circle.

The man’s face was completely blanketed, two yellow eyes burning from beneath his mask. Expressionless yet calculating. It was the same man Cego had faced moments ago in the gi. The same man who had crushed him against the ice.

Cego neared the Circle. Though he was familiar with auralite, this was different.

This Circle pulsed with the strength of a raging river, fed by the swarm of spectrals circling overhead. Even before he stepped into the Circle, Cego could feel the pull of the crowd from around him, rhythmically slamming their hands against the rafters. Urging him to spring forward and attack.

Cego stepped into the Circle, facing the man in black. It was hot, wherever he was. He could already feel beads of sweat forming on his brow.

“Strike me down,” the man said in the same monotone voice.

Cego readied himself, his hands up by his chin. He shuffled toward his opponent across the Circle. The man raised his fists. He rotated slowly as Cego circled to his right.

Cego threw a few feinting jabs at the man to gauge his reactions. Nothing. He didn’t even flinch as the punches came within inches of his face.

Cego threw a low cross at the man’s midsection, this time aiming to connect. His opponent shifted his hips back slightly to avoid it and followed with a lightning-fast counter jab. Cego barely turned his chin in time as the punch shaved his face, throwing him off balance.

His opponent was a counterpuncher. He was waiting for Cego to attack and would respond with his own aggression. He was baiting him.

Farmer had played this game with Cego. It was frustrating and required patience to overcome. Cego needed to attack, expect the counter, and then respond with a counter of his own. In order to succeed, he would need to be several steps ahead of his opponent.

“Strike me down,” the man repeated.

Cego circled again, trying to look for some opening in the man’s defense. He breathed out, steadying himself.

The rhythmic drumming of the crowd picked up its pace.

Cego tried to ignore it, but he could feel the rhythm reverberating in his skull. He felt the impatience of the crowd, as if they were prodding him to move forward, to increase his pace. Though he knew he shouldn’t listen, he wanted to please them.

He switched directions, circling to the man’s left. He stopped and circled back to his right. He shuffled his feet faster, moving back and forth, trying to catch the man off guard as he pivoted.

Cego jumped in and threw a quick inside leg kick, the same kick he had often employed against Masa during training. The man in black was lightning-fast with his parry, bringing up his shin and angling his bone at Cego’s own shin, pushing down right before impact. Cego felt an electric jolt shoot up his spine as their shins clashed. He stumbled backward onto one knee, his leg quivering. The man didn’t even register the attack.