The Combat Codes (21 page)

Cego knelt on the ground, trying to suck in a breath of the humid air. The beat of the crowd continued to heighten, getting louder and faster.

He got up and began to circle again. The man in black rotated, his defenses up. Cego desperately looked for an opening, his heart beating rapidly along with the crowd’s clamor.

Cego threw a series of jabs again at the man, still not getting any reaction. He quick-stepped in and let a jab loose, following it with a cross. His opponent weaved his head, letting both punches slip by at the last moment. The man countered, a stiff jab of his own that smashed into Cego’s nose, an explosion of white, followed with a roundhouse that clipped Cego’s temple, sending him to the ground in a heap.

The arena spun around Cego, interspersed with flashes of light and the blur of the crowd.

Why was he here? To complete the Trials? To enter the Lyceum? To become a Knight? The goals were distant now, like dreams fading in the sleepy seconds of waking.

Cego’s vision steadied. His opponent stood before him, steadfast, unwavering, without any apparent chinks in his armor. The crowd got even louder, as if they’d synced with the pulse of Cego’s heart—every beat roaring against the inside of his skull. Though he was beaten down and bloodied, he had to answer the crowd.

Cego slowly stood, his legs wavering.

How could he even land one strike against such an opponent? The man’s counterattacks were flawless. Every time Cego went on the offensive, the man retaliated with deadly precision.

Often, the fight is won before the first punch is
thrown.

Farmer would emphasize that point before Cego’s sparring sessions. He said that Cego’s mindset going into a fight was as important as his physical conditioning or retinue of techniques.

Before the first
punch.

The crowd wanted him to attack. He could feel it, as if he were a marionette dancing under their strings. Cego knew that he must not listen to them. He needed to counter their influence and regain control of the situation. It was as much of a fight against the crowd as it was against the man standing across the Circle from him.

Cego stepped toward his opponent, his hands down at his side. He walked just out of the man’s range and stopped in front of him. Cego stood completely still, staring at the man’s blazing eyes. The crowd thundered around him, their rhythm urging him to move forward, to attack and to win.

“Strike me down,” the man said.

Cego breathed deeply, unmoving like his opponent. He focused on the spectral light around him, soaking it in. He thought about Dozer and Knees—perhaps his two friends were facing the same unmovable opponent in their Trial. He thought about Murray, who truly believed in him, who had welcomed him into his home like family. He wouldn’t let them down.

The crowd’s roar quieted and the world around him dimmed. He saw only his opponent. Though the man did not move, Cego was mindful of every part of his body—ready to react to the slightest quiver.

Then, as if the man in black had snapped out of a deep slumber, he suddenly shot his leg forward into a push kick, aimed directly at Cego’s midsection. Cego had forced the man to attack.

He couldn’t completely evade the kick—it was far too fast—but he was able to suck in his stomach at the last moment to reduce the impact. He felt the ball of the man’s foot blast into his lower rib cage. Something cracked.

Cego was the one ready to counter this time.

He wrapped the man’s kicking foot up under one of his arms and dropped levels, throwing the man’s leg on top of his shoulder. Cego surged forward, throwing his opponent off balance as he threw a cross at the man’s face. The punch caught the man on the chin, though he barely registered it.

Cego let go of the leg and continued moving forward, throwing a flurry of punches while he was inside of the man’s range. The man expertly bobbed and weaved, evading the punches easily.

Cego growled. If he couldn’t hurt the man, he’d at least take something from him. Cego threw another jab, this time with an open hand. As the man weaved his head to the side, Cego grasped at the man’s mask, getting a hold of the slick material and pulling his hand back. The mask came off.

Cego gasped, falling backward away from the sight.

He didn’t have time to get his hands up as the man moved in like a blur. A kick slammed into Cego’s ribs, followed by a fist exploding against his temple. And then there was only darkness again.

*

Murray stared at the lightboard as Cego fell to the Guardian.

The look in kid’s eyes had been one of pure terror.

Now Cego needed to come to terms with the truth that the Trials weren’t of this world—that he wasn’t walking within the concrete walls of the Lyceum and battling flesh-and-blood opponents.

“Shouldn’t’ve let curiosity get the best of ’im,” Dakar slurred. “No one, ’specially not a kid, should’ve to come face t’face with a Guardian.”

“He needed better preparation. If he’d known about the true nature of the simulation, he could have readied himself for such an outcome,” Callen said as he smugly glanced over at Murray from the corner of his seat.

“Each child needs a different sort of preparation, Commander Albright,” Memnon interjected. “If Scout Pearson deemed it necessary to keep his talent in the dark on the true nature of the Trials, he must have had good reason to.”

“Yes, yes. Of course, High Commander,” Callen replied. “I was just saying that perhaps Murray’s… talent was simply unprepared for the rigors that he would encounter in the Trials.”

Murray couldn’t hold out any longer. “Cego darkin’ put his fist into the Guardian’s face; did anyone else even see that? How many-Trial takers can you recall that did so?” Murray asked heatedly.

“Yes, and then he proceeded to completely let his defenses down, Scout Pearson. Your boy got picked apart like the swollen bit-purse of a nobleman wandering the hawker’s market.” Callen spoke loudly enough for the entire room to hear. Scout Cydek snickered.

“Commander Farstead and the teachers of the Lyceum will be the judges of each child’s performance. It is not for us to speculate upon,” Memnon said with finality.

Murray fell back to silence, staring up at the screen as the Arena simulation around Cego began to shimmer and fade. The screen was black for a moment before it began to lighten again, swelling to a hazy purple like the early moments of a dawning day.

Cego had scored highly enough to make it to the final stage of the Trials. The majority of the lightboards in the room were dark now; only a select group of kids had progressed this far.

Murray shivered as he thought about what was to come. The last stage of the Trials had broken many minds. Murray would never be able to dispel the image of Tarick’s wide, empty eyes, the kid’s body lying inertly in the medward.

Murray had done his best to prepare Cego for the Trial over the past month, but in the end, it would be the kid’s own spirit that determined his success.

Murray had seen it in the Underground. He’d seen it during Cego’s training in the barracks. Beyond the technique and endurance that were required of a Knight, the kid grasped something more than that—honor, sacrifice, spirit. The qualities the Ancients strove to perfect, lacking in even some of the high-ranking Grievar in this room around him.

Qualities that would desperately be needed in the days to come.

*

A wet, cold object pressed against his face. Cego lashed out with his hand defensively and felt something soft—fur.

He turned and looked into two dark eyes—a shaggy grey face behind them. Arry. She licked him with her warm tongue.

He was here again. Arry curled up against him. Sunlight streamed through the wooden shutters of the loft. The wind chimes played their melody just outside the door. Just as it always happened, it would be seconds before Cego woke. He wanted to make the most of it.

Cego smiled and pushed his face against Arry’s, nuzzling her—pain jolted up his nose, sending a shockwave into his temples.

Cego drew back from the little pup, placing his hand up to his nose. Again—a sudden pain. How could he feel pain like this? Here, in the safety of the loft? In his dream.

Cego drew his hand back. It was covered in blood. The memories flooded back to him. The Trials. The arena. The man… the creature with the burning eyes, its fist smashing into his face.

Cego slowly stood up, patting Arry’s head as she cocked it curiously at him. His body was sore, beaten and bruised from his previous fights. Yet here he was, in the loft with Arry curled up next to him.

Cego’s breathing became faster.

He ran toward the loft door, holding his breath as he pushed it open.

The world exploded into view around Cego, a sudden burst of color and light. The blue sky above him. The stark emerald waters retreating toward the horizon. The dune sloping down to the black sand of the beach below. Everything looked so crisp, so beautiful—just as he remembered. As if the previous world he’d inhabited had been a dull, faded canvas, but here the world was painted in vivid color.

The ocean air was salty and tinged with the pungent odor of fish drying in the sun. The sweet scent of freshly bloomed calendulas greeted Cego, bringing back the memory of every morning that he’d opened the loft doors to slide down the dune onto the beach. Cego couldn’t help but breathe deeply, feel the air settle in his lungs.

How could this
be?

He was home; that was certain. He was on the Island again, in all of its bright, vivid texture. And yet, he was not dreaming. He could remember every detail of the Trials. The frigid tundra, the punishing throws against the ice. The fight in the arena, the pulse of the crowd, taking the mask off of that… thing.

Cego’s mind raced as he stood atop the dune. The creature with the burning eyes. Had that been
real?
Had any of the Trials been real? Everything certainly felt real—the pain that wracked his body, the air that he was breathing, Arry nuzzling up against his legs.

Yet, if he concentrated on it, something felt different here, as if the world had a distinct texture.

Cego steadied himself as he gazed out across the lush landscape. This must be another Trial. Somehow, they had transported him to this Island, this place in his memory. He needed to be ready for anything, as Commander Aon had instructed.

Cego walked across the cobbled pathway toward Farmer’s compound. It looked exactly as it did in his dreams. Where the yellow beach grass ended, a lawn of carefully manicured grey pebbles surrounded the house. A base of chiseled boulders bearing dark wooden planks made up the home’s frame. The gracefully curved stone shingle roof glinted in the sunlight. Cego walked past the rock garden out front with the carefully manicured miniature trees and the slow trickle of the water spout. He could see the translucent walls of the back room that held Farmer’s ironwood Circle.

Cego could feel his mind shearing in two directions.

He was in the Trials. He felt the pain. He remembered the darkness of the past several months—his captivity in the Underground, Weep’s death, the constant cold, grey rain that fell on Mercuri.

He also saw the crisp blue skies above, the slow rolling waves on the emerald waters. He could only focus on the next breath of fresh air and the intoxicating scent of the flowers in bloom. It was as if he’d woken from a nightmare and was now back where he belonged—on the Island, home again.

Cego went around the back side of the house as he usually did, toward the Circle. He didn’t quite know what to expect, sliding the thin bamboo door open, but part of Cego knew
he’d
be there.

Farmer.

The old master sat cross-legged in the middle of the Circle, facing the rays of sunlight that fell through the translucent walls onto the canvas floor. He looked the same. His grey hair was tied into a topknot, strands falling onto the shoulders of the tattered grey robe that pooled around him like a puddle on the floor. His eyes were closed as he breathed deeply.

Cego didn’t know what to do. Wherever he was, would the Farmer in this world know him? Would he remember the many years Cego spent under his tutelage?

“Master, I’m home,” Cego said as he always did.

Farmer’s eyes fluttered open. They were the same sparkling citrine gemstones Cego remembered.

As if speaking from a very distant place, Farmer whispered. “A boy dreams for a thousand days and nights that he flies amongst the constellations. The boy rides atop icy meteors, he warms himself on the surface of the sun, he dives deep into the watery depths of aqueous worlds, and he falls asleep on the crook of the moon. His home is in the stars.”

Farmer paused, as he often did, letting the silence that followed his words speak to Cego.

“Suddenly, the boy wakes. The world he opens his eyes to is different. He no longer can fly amongst the stars. He stands on the cold, hard earth. The boy feels things he does not remember—pain, exhaustion, despair.

“The boy tries to live his life. He follows a path, he becomes a man, he finds a wife, he bears a family. Every day, though, the man remembers his dream in the stars and is saddened by his loss. He remembers what it felt like to ride atop a meteor.”

Cego listened in silence.

“Late in his life, as he becomes old and feeble, the man sits outside and looks at the sky. He grieves, remembering his dream in the stars. Out of sadness, the man does not eat, drink, or even move. His family shouts at him, jostles him, cries for him as he continuously stares at the sky. Soon, the man becomes dust, and the wind carries him away.”

Somehow, Cego knew the question was coming.

“Was the boy dreaming of his time amongst the stars, or was it the man who dreamed of his time on earth?” Farmer asked.

Cego didn’t respond. The old master’s questions were never that simple.

Farmer was silent for several moments before speaking again. “Stay for a while, young traveler. Why don’t you warm yourself on the beach?”

Cego stayed silent, studying the master’s familiar face. Farmer didn’t recognize him. The man was staring through Cego as if he were another one of the translucent screens surrounding the room. Cego had a thousand questions for Famer—but this was not the old master he knew.