The Combat Codes (30 page)

Aon paused, as if examining each student’s reaction to his words.

“That is the purpose of this class. Though it is called the Combat Codes and we will certainly be studying those very texts, we shall also keep in mind that we strive for greater purpose than simply reading a text. We each are seeking our own answer to that question: why do we fight?”

*

The question—
why do we fight—
was notably absent from Cego’s mind as Gunnar Cavanaugh’s shin skimmed the top of his head.

The Crippler’s team leader was bearing down on Cego, attacking him with a variety of strikes from unorthodox angles. Cego was defending ably enough, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep up the pace.

Cego sucked in his stomach, narrowly avoiding another blistering kick aimed at his liver. Gunnar didn’t look like he was slowing down anytime soon—the Level Two’s blue second skin was barely wet. Cego’s white second skin had completely soaked through after the first ten minutes of the bout.

The Lyceum’s challenge grounds were not looming with the grand fanfare of Lampai Stadium, yet somehow, Cego found this venue more intimidating. The room was utilitarian—unadorned walls, several rows of long wooden bleachers on each side, a tan canvas with three adjacent Circles planted at the center.

The intimidation stemmed from who was in this room—Cego’s peers and teachers, not just random spectators. The audience was made up of Lyceum students who were levels above Cego, Fives and Sixers who were on the verge of graduating and becoming Knights. His own professors were also likely watching him from somewhere up in those stands, judging his performance.

Well into minute twenty of the fray, Cego was short on ideas on how to beat Gunnar. For a lanky striker, his opponent was surprisingly agile, with solid takedown defense. Gunnar had stuffed most of Cego’s shots and had easily returned to his feet after the rare takedown.

Though Gunnar’s attacks had more than occupied Cego’s attention, he had noticed Sol’s quick win in the next Circle over. The daughter of Artemis Halberd had proven herself an able grappler. Cego had heard the familiar crunch of bone and ligament as Sol had torqued her opponent’s knee to a vicious angle.

Mateus Winterfowl, who’d refused to join the Whelps during their strategy session, had lost his bout near minute five. Mateus had gone up against the Cripplers’ resident brawler, who’d overwhelmed him with what Cego could only describe as an ugly but relentless show of striking.

With the score tied up, it was up to Cego to take this first win for the Whelps.

Gunnar leapt in with two quick jabs, one breaking through to bloody Cego’s nose even as he tried to slip to the left.

Cego was fighting in rubellium, a familiar setting after the month of training in Murray-Ku’s barracks. The Circle’s red glow had urged him forward throughout the bout, but Cego had stayed calm, patiently waiting for his opening. He was still waiting.

He slipped another jab and tucked his hand against his jaw, taking Gunnar’s high round kick to the forearm. He’d feel that one tomorrow.

Cego responded with a spinning back fist. He’d attempted the technique several times so far with little success. Gunnar stepped out of reach again.

The Crippler’s team leader was tall and corded, with short-cropped blond hair. Gunnar seemed confident in his every movement, not hesitating as he surged forward with another rapid combination.

Cego’s brother, Silas, had fought with a similar style.

“Every punch needs potential,” Silas had said to Cego during one of their bouts in Farmer’s ironwood Circle.

“How about a feint?” Cego had asked his older brother. “What if I’m just trying to get you to react?”

“Even a feint needs potential,” Silas had replied. “Otherwise, your opponent knows it’s a feint. It loses its purpose.”

Silas had demonstrated his lesson on Cego firsthand, as he often did, throwing a series of quick combinations and breaking through with a cross that left Cego crumpled on the canvas.

“So, how do I win?” Cego had asked his older brother, holding a hand up to the gash under his eye.

“You don’t win.” Silas had flashed that mocking smile of his before walking away, leaving Cego alone in the Circle.

At the time, Cego had thought Silas was simply being arrogant. His eldest brother had often treated him harshly, almost with disdain, not with the care he reserved for Sam.

Gunnar fought the same way Silas did, though—every attack he threw had the potential of causing damage. He didn’t throw feints haphazardly. If Cego didn’t get his hands up, he knew he’d pay for it. He was constantly defending, always one step behind Gunnar.

You don’t
win.

Cego was trying to defend every attack, win every series. He was wearing down, constantly on the defensive. Eventually, Gunnar would catch him standing.

Silas was right. He wouldn’t win the standup game.

Cego took a deep breath as Gunnar threw a leaping cross, springing forward off his front foot, propelling his weight into the punch.

Cego kept his hands low as the blow caught him on the chin. He tried to turn away to lessen the impact, but the force still had him reeling to the canvas.

Gunnar was on him in an instant, taking the opportunity to pummel Cego on the floor. Though Cego was still spinning from the attack, he’d drilled the technique too many times to fail.

Every morning under the Island’s tangerine light, Cego had practiced off his back. Shooting his hips up, throwing his legs open, catching an invisible opponent’s neck, locking his foot in the crook of his knee, squeezing, and repeating the drill a thousand times more until Farmer’s rare nod of approval.

Wherever the Island was, wherever Farmer and Silas and Sam were, it didn’t matter right now. Everything he’d learned from them was real—as real as the air he was breathing or the canvas he lay on. His body knew the technique. He was the technique.

Cego shot his hips up as Gunnar came in, latching the triangle choke around the boy’s exposed neck while trapping his arm. He found the perfect angle, reaching under Gunnar’s knee to turn his hips and thrusting his leg forward. He locked on and squeezed.

As Gunnar went out, Cego saw his brother Silas standing over him, flashing his mocking smile.

12

Why We Fight

Throwing opposite-side strikes in cadence surely is an effective way to utilize a Grievar’s momentum to the fullest. Just as the pendulum swings back and forth, each strike can feed off the force of the previous. However, against an experienced opponent, a Grievar needs to consider switching cadence, attacking out of rhythm with multiple strikes focused to one side. Attacking out of cadence requires a greater utilization of ki—a Grievar should practice doing so
regularly.

Passage Six, Ninetieth Technique of the Combat Codes

C
ego was tired
and hungry—a trend at the Lyceum. Even as the semester approached its midpoint, Cego could feel the constant strain of training.

As usual, the Whelps descended the stairs toward the dining hall together.

“Think there’ll be real animals down there?” Dozer had asked the first time they’d gone down those stairs. “I’m beat. But not so beat that I won’t be able to catch some dinner.”

Sol had given Cego a look that said, “Is he for real?”

The Lyceum’s dining hall was quite impressive, though Cego realized his primary frame of reference had been the cans of green slop they called food in the Underground. Of course, there were no animals (live or dead) as Dozer had hoped for, but there were several stations that served various forms of vat-protein and insta-carbs, along with dehydrated fruits and vegetables.

The other Level One teams sat right along the same wooden table as the Whelps. For now, the lacklights and purelights coexisted without disturbance. Kōri Shimo sat alone at one end of the table, maintaining his trademark blank stare. Gryfin Thurgood confidently sat between two female students, regaling them with the tale of his first broken bone.

Even Knees sat at the far end of the table with the rest of the Jackals, though their Venturian friend had avoided eye contact with Cego or Dozer for several weeks now.

Professor Hunt had been speaking the truth at the start of the semester when he’d said that the boundaries of birthright and wealth would be broken down at the Lyceum. The intense class and challenge schedule had the effect of bringing everyone to the same baseline. Not to say that there wasn’t any discrimination. Shiar and most of the other purelights still walked around like they were superior beings—they were just too worn down to do anything about it.

There was a whole new way to discriminate here at the Lyceum, though—Levels. Those wearing their brand-new white second skins—Level Ones –clumped together and wearily watched the sea of bigger fish swarm around them.

Level Twos, blue skins, Level Threes, purple skins, Level Fours, brown skins, Level Fives, black skins, and Level Sixers, red skins, mostly sat congregated amongst their own kind. Here and there, Cego noticed an outlier that sat apart from their own level, but overall, the tables in the dining hall reminded him of the various monochrome patches of berries that used to grow on the Island.

The segregation around him made Cego feel all the more fortunate to be a Whelp. He felt at home with his team, though his prior conceptions of home had unraveled at this point.

Abel was always full of interesting tidbits of foreign knowledge. Today, he was attempting to enlighten Dozer on the nude fighting rituals of the Myrkos folk, an indigenous Grievar tribe that had gone unnoticed by the rest of civilization for thousands of years.

“Completely darkin’ naked?!” Dozer exclaimed. “Wouldn’t that be… dangerous for, you know. Delicate parts?”

Sol slapped Dozer on the shoulder. “Oh, manliest of Grievar, I was under the impression that one such as you did not have any delicate parts.”

“You know what I mean!” Dozer protested.

Abel proceeded to stand and mimic how the Myrkos folk would tuck their delicate parts to keep them out of harm’s way, eliciting raucous laughter from the rest of the team. Though he sometimes questioned the legitimacy of such tales, Cego had become fond of the way Abel told his stories in his quirky Kirothian accent.

Joba continued to stay silent, though Cego could sense the boy’s steady presence, as if he were a boulder lodged in a rushing river. No matter what the circumstances, Joba had a broad smile spread across his face. Throughout the toughest workouts or during the most mundane lectures, the boy’s smile remained steadfast. Cego often wondered if Joba was smiling because he was happy to be removed from whatever hardships he’d suffered in the outer rings.

Cego glanced at Sol from across the table. The daughter of Artemis Halberd was continuing to chide Dozer about his delicates, fluttering her sunflower eyes in what she called proper noble-lady fashion. She kept her long red hair in a tight braid that swung across her back as she shook her head.

At this point, Sol seemed to accept her role as the team’s resident know-it-all. Though she did roll her eyes on many occasions, Cego had come to find that Sol wasn’t just a brain; she backed up her vast banks of martial information with flawless execution. In the individual Level One scoring sections, Sol was leading in every class with nearly perfect test scores.

Even Mateus Winterfowl appeared to have eased his reluctance in associating with the rest of the Whelps. At the start of the semester, Mateus would constantly complain about the great indignities he was suffering, sleeping amongst a group of foreigners and lacklights. Now he mainly just grumbled, which Cego could more easily digest.

Part of Mateus’s acceptance of the Whelps came from the indisputable fact that the team performed well together. Team scores were an essential portion of each student’s total score, and the Whelps had been very successful so far. They currently stood second in the Level One standings, narrowly trailing the Jackals going into the final stretch.

The Whelps’ primary advantage had been the full use of their six team members. Because each challenge only utilized three Grievar, many of the other teams had come to rely only on their best three, while the rest remained unused. Though this strategy was strong to start, the top three were fast to wear down because of their increased fight load.

Though the Whelps had a strong top three, Cego, Sol, and Dozer, the true strength of their team came from spreading out their fights based on each member’s strengths.

Abel’s ability to rapidly move in and out of striking distance made him the perfect matchup for slow-moving, heavy-hitting Grievar that he could wear down. Joba was the perfect match against lanky strikers—the boy had the uncanny ability to absorb a barrage of strikes before bearing down on his opponent.

Unlike most of the cocky purelights on the other teams, the Whelps also found strength in their admission of weakness. They weren’t afraid to know where each member was lacking.

Dozer was baffled by plotting opponents—those smart Grievar who came in with a bout-long game plan. He always fared better in slugfests. Sol performed fantastically against those same intelligent opponents. Somehow, she could always out-strategize them, thinking one step ahead for each of their moves.

Despite the Whelps’ current standings, Cego had not lost sight of his plan from the start of the semester. He glanced down the long table toward Knees, who had that same blank stare on his face as he slowly picked at his food.

Cego had attempted to reach out to his friend several times this semester so far; after all, they were in three of the same classes and it was difficult to avoid any Level Ones at such close quarters. Each time, Knees had responded to Cego with those bleary eyes, as if he didn’t even recognize who he was.

Seeing Knees before and after the Trials was like night and day. That constant glimmer in his eye and his ever-present smirk had disappeared.

Even if the Whelps did somehow pull this plan off—convincing the Jackals to challenge them at a huge risk and invoking the trade clause for Knees, not to mention actually winning the challenge against the leading Level One team, what then? That didn’t mean Cego would actually be able to help his friend with what he was going through. Even if Knees was on the Whelps, they couldn’t get inside his brain.

One step forward is one step where you are not standing still.
Farmer’s voice cut through the surrounding clamor of the dining hall.

Cego had gotten in the habit of blocking out his old master’s voice since the Sim experience. He’d almost successfully pushed Farmer out of his head, though sometimes, somehow, the old master’s voice came through.

And Farmer was right, as usual. Even if Cego didn’t know how to help Knees, getting him onto their team and away from Shiar’s Jackals was a step forward.

It was almost time take action. Like preparing for a fight, they needed to be methodical in their research and execution. He’d already discovered that Shiar and the rest of the Jackals had been sniffing around to evaluate the strength of the other teams.

Currently though, it was too much risk for the Jackals to challenge the Whelps. Shiar’s team would risk losing their coveted first-place spot going into the end of the semester. The Jackals needed more incentive—they needed to smell blood.

That’s just what Cego planned to give them.

*

Murray made sure to remain unseen as he climbed the stairs of the Valkyrie toward Commander Aon Farstead’s study. Even under the guise of a harmless visit to one of his old mentors, Murray didn’t want to raise any notes of suspicion.

Aon’s door was open when Murray arrived at the study at the end of the sixth-floor hallway.

“Commander Farstead?” Murray said as he slowly pushed the door open and entered. He scanned the room, which had remained exactly the same for the past few decades, full of musty old bookshelves. Aon Farstead was nowhere to be seen.

“Murray Pearson, I thought you’d be paying me a visit sometime soon,” a voice suddenly fell from above Murray.

Murray peered up and saw the ancient Grievar perched at the top of a ladder set against one of the tall bookshelves. Aon had a small sack hanging off of his shoulders. He carefully pulled a book from the sack and deposited it in an empty section on one of the shelves.

“No matter how much we think we know, there’s always some empty space up there,” Aon mused as he set another book in place.

“Commander! Shouldn’t you be careful? I mean, let me help you…” Murray walked to the base of the ladder to make sure it was steady. A fall from that height would certainly kill the frail man.

Aon chuckled. “While I appreciate your worries, Knight Pearson, I can’t help but think I should be insulted by your lack of faith in my climbing abilities.”

“No, no. I wasn’t saying you can’t… I was just—” Murray stuttered.

“—just helping out an old Grievar,” Aon finished his sentence. “Yes, yes, I know. And I appreciate it, my friend,” Aon said as he began to slowly climb down the ladder.

Murray watched tentatively as Aon finally made it toward the bottom rungs.

“Helping me more often than not involves stowing me in some corner where I can’t be a bother,” Aon said as he accepted Murray’s hand and stepped off the ladder. The old Grievar shuffled over to his chair across the room and fell back into it, breathing hard from the exertion.

“And they’re probably right. I’m more of a nuisance than anything now, always getting in the way. And yet I’m not really willing to stop,” Aon noted.

“Nor do I think you should stop, Commander,” Murray said, standing at attention in front of the old Grievar’s chair.

“You know better than to call me Commander, Knight Pearson.” Aon motioned for Murray to sit across from him.

Murray took his seat. “And you know better than to call me Knight decades past my service.”

“Once a Knight, always a Knight. Even those Ancients buried out in the boneyard are still Knights, though they’ve certainly seen better days!” Aon exclaimed. “That’s where I’ll be soon, no doubt. I’m hoping at least I’ll take some honor to the grave.”

Murray nodded.

“In fact, Pearson, though you’re no longer active, and despite that stunt you pulled down at Lampai, you’re more of a Knight than most of those that walk the Tower’s halls today,” Aon said.

“That’s actually what I came to talk to you about,” Murray said.

“And that’s why I’ve always liked you, Pearson. You’re to the point. Direct. Not like these Command meetings I’m forced to sit through, wasting away my final hours…” Aon said.

“It’s about the Knight program. The way things are being run,” Murray continued. He wasn’t sure how he should broach the subject. “I know I’m just a Scout, but…”

“I don’t entirely agree with the Scout program, particularly with that fool Callen, but don’t use that to diminish your own self-worth, my boy. We both know that you are far more than a Scout,” Aon said. “And I sense that your visit here isn’t about you. It’s about someone else.”

Murray nodded.

“Yes, it is about someone else. The talent I scouted this cycle. His name is Cego.”

Aon nodded, his milky eyes flickering under the light. “Yes, I know the boy. He’s in my Codes class. Very perceptive for his years.”

Murray nodded. He hadn’t realized that Cego had applied to be in Aon’s class.

“Yeah. Cego is different,” Murray said. “I’m not sure if you’re aware… or if the rest of Command has looped you in about what happened during his Trial?” Murray didn’t want to underestimate Aon’s position as Commander of the Lyceum.

“Ah, yes, the Trials. Quite an anomaly that was. Your boy knew the Sim like the inside of a Circle. Not the only anomaly during these Trials, though. And no, Callen and Memnon made a point to keep any pertinent information from my ears, though I suspect they are keener than those two think,” Aon said with a sly grin as he pulled on one of his bulbous, cauliflowered lobes.

“Not the only anomaly?” Murray asked curiously. “You mean Cego wasn’t the only one that… that was able to get through the Trials with such ease?”

“Yes. There was another. He didn’t get through the same way that Cego did—with such finesse in navigating each stage. The other one had more of a… brute-force technique for getting through the Trials,” Aon’s said forebodingly.