The Combat Codes (23 page)

Though Farmer didn’t appear to recognize him, or remember him in any way—this was certainly the same old master who had trained him for so many years. Cego knew that now. The way he moved—at one moment, as light as a feather, and at the next, as heavy as a boulder. That exacting pressure of Farmer’s forearm slicing across his throat. The precise position of his feet caught in the crooks of Cego’s knees.

Farmer’s arm tightened across his neck. Cego could feel the edges of his vision blur. For a moment, Cego felt warm as the cocoon of darkness closed in on him. What was that warmth? It was foreign to him, but he could remember the feeling like the embrace an old friend.

Cego smiled as the world went dark again.

*

Murray stepped up to the door of High Commander’s Memnon’s private office, unannounced. Not many in the Citadel would consider such a breach of protocol, but Murray didn’t care. He needed to get some answers. He set his eye in front of the lightdeck planted in the door and let it scan him. The shouting inside the office quieted immediately.

After a few moments, the door swished open. Callen Albright was sitting in Memnon’s office, as Murray had expected. The two looked like they’d been having a heated discussion—Memnon was standing over Callen, his eyes fiery. Albright flashed that smug grin that made Murray want to put his head through the adjacent shield window.

“Scout Pearson, I don’t believe you had an appointment with the High Commander,” Callen said.

“Did you have an appointment, Commander Callen?” Murray retorted.

“No… but I am—”

Memnon cut Callen off. “Dark this appointment talk. Scout Pearson, your arrival is actually timely. We have some questions for you.”

“Questions for
me
?” Murray asked incredulously. “I’m here because I have questions for you. What happened in the Sim?!”

“What did happen in the Sim, Pearson? Something your Commanders should be aware of perhaps?” Callen fished.

“I’m not here to play mind games with you, Commander Albright,” Murray said. He turned away from the wiry Grievar and addressed Memnon directly. “Be straight with me, High Commander. I’ve only ever done such with you. I know something is going on—whatever happened with Cego in that Sim was not normal. The way he navigated it. It doesn’t make sense.”

Memnon met Murray’s eyes. Murray could see the wear on the High Commander’s face. He looked tired, as if he’d aged a decade since Murray had last spoken with him.

Memnon and Coach had come up in the Citadel together. They’d been practically brothers, fighting on the same team throughout their Knight’s service. Coach had been offered the Commander position first but turned it down, saying he wasn’t a politik, he was a Grievar. Memnon had been second choice and found himself as High Commander within five years. Coach stayed on as head trainer of the Knights.

At first, the two had worked well together, Coach coordinating his program to complement Memnon’s vision: training a team of Knights that was well rounded, Grievar who could fight and win in any climate or Circle.

Soon, though, Murray could remember Coach muttering about Memnon getting in the way of him doing his job, saying the Citadel was heading down a path he didn’t like. Part of the rift between the two had developed because of the neurostimulants circulating in the team—Coach couldn’t get behind that. But there was more to it—something that drove the two friends even further apart.

Eventually, Coach wouldn’t even mention Memnon’s name, as if saying it out loud would sully the Combat Codes. It wasn’t too long after that Coach had disappeared.

“Scout Pearson. I understand your concern for your talent. But you dishonor us by inferring that we know more about this situation than you do,” Memnon said pointedly.

Dishonor?
Murray had the mind to say a thing or two about darkin’ honor right here in the High Commander’s office, but he held his tongue.

“We need you to answer some questions for us so that we can appropriately deal with this situation,” Memnon said.

“What do you mean,
deal with
? Cego didn’t do anything; he doesn’t deserve any—”

“Don’t worry. Your talent will remain safe at study in the Lyceum. As I said, though, to deal with this situation, we need you to answer a few questions.” Memnon waved toward a chair in front of him.

Murray slowly slid into the seat. Callen stood up next to Memnon. Somehow, this had turned into an interrogation.

“Go ahead, Callen; ask your questions.” Memnon sighed.

Callen paced in front of Murray with his arms folded behind his back. “Where did you first discover your talent, this boy… Cego?” he asked.

“Don’t you already know the answer to that? It’s all reported in my Scout’s log.”

“Perhaps you decided to leave out some integral details. After all, we all know you’ve never been the most fastidious Scout. You aren’t known for your attention to detail,” Callen said.

Murray let the insult slide by, as if he were slipping a punch.

“I saw him fighting in Thaloo Jakabar’s Circle, District Three, Underground,” Murray answered.

“And what about this lacklight boy piqued your interest?”

“I may not be the most
detail-oriented
Scout, but I know fighting. I saw that Cego had potential. The way he moved. In fact, his movement in the Circle reminded me of Coach,” Murray said, looking directly into Memnon’s eyes, looking for a reaction.

Was that a flash of anger? Or perhaps resentment. The High Commander looked out the window.

“And perhaps you could refresh the High Commander on how Cego came into your possession?” Callen asked as he continued to pace in front of Murray’s seat.

“Thaloo would not grant me patron rights for the bit-purse I was allotted by the Scouts, so I decided I’d strike a deal to fight for him at Lampai. I won, and here we are,” Murray said flatly.

“Ah. It all sounds so simple, doesn’t it?” Callen cooed sarcastically. “What a miraculous story. You suddenly came upon this undervalued lacklight urchin fighting in the Deep, and you simply knew all of a sudden you had a gem in your hands. So much so that you said, ‘I’m going to come out of a decade-long retirement just to fight for him.’”

“You’ve got it,” Murray said.

“You’ve got some nerve, coming in to the High Commander’s office and lying—”

Murray stood up abruptly, his eyes flashing at the wiry Scout Commander. Memnon stepped between the two.

“Now that I’ve answered your questions, answer mine. What the dark is going on here?” Murray growled.

Memnon looked Murray in the eye. “As with everything we do here, we’re working for the good of the nation. We’re trying to improve our Grievar program here at the Citadel, Scout Pearson,” Memnon said.

“Trying to improve your Grievar again, Memnon?” Murray asked. “First it was neuros, then the Scouts, then the Sim. What’s next? How could you possibly stray further from the Codes?”

“Scout Pearson, stand down,” Memnon said.

Murray stayed on his feet, standing face to face with Memnon. His muscles were still tense. What was he going to do? Take a shot at the High Commander of the Citadel? Coach certainly wanted to all those years ago. Perhaps he’d be doing his mentor a favor.

“What do you have to hide?” Murray asked, his face inches from Memnon’s. “What new ways have you found to give in to the demands of those soap-eaters, to further erode our honor? I want to hear it from you—not your lapdog here.”

Memnon stood his ground, eyes level with Murray’s. The two men were roughly equal-sized. “Stand down, Scout Pearson,” he growled again.

“I’ve hit a nerve here, haven’t I? Is this why Coach was so darkin’ pissed all those years ago? Somethin’ you politiks are cooking up here?”

“Stand down, Scout Pearson,” Memnon growled.

“If I can’t get answers from you, I’ll get them my own way,” Murray said. He turned and walked back through the sliding doors.

*

Murray walked briskly into the Lyceum’s ample medward, the largest in Mercuri—serving all of the Citadel’s Grievar.

Murray watched the clerics moving around the room with a mixture of fascination and disgust—usually, they kept to the cover of their thick red cloaks outside, but here in the medward, they stood boldly, wearing sleeveless tunics and silken pants.

He could best describe the clerics as sickly. At least in his approximation—a healthy, robust Grievar was heavily muscled, thick-boned, with skin rough from wear like a suit of armor. These Daimyos were quite the opposite—their skin was paper-thin, the veins beneath clearly visible, streaking their faces, necks, and arms like crimson spider webs. They looked like brittle sticks; Murray had no doubt he could snap one of them with little effort.

But they certainly got the job done. Murray had experienced the clerics’ work at the Lyceum firsthand—he’d been badly injured numerous times along his lightpath. There were times when Murray was sure he was done, his path ended due to a shattered collarbone, a smashed kneecap, even a spinal injury that left him paralyzed for several weeks. The clerics had brought him back from that.

Though they were technically Daimyos by blood, the clerics were different from the gaudy nobles that Murray was used to seeing, parading like kings on the Underground’s thoroughfares.

The clerics oversaw their patients without emotion, their probing faces basked in the light of nearby hovering spectrals. There was no cooing and soothing bedside manner with them. They determined the root of the problem and fixed it. If there was an injury or malady they could not fix, they moved on to the next patient with cool indifference.

Murray passed Lyceum students and Knights in various states of injury, ranging from torn ankle ligaments to Grievar near death. Murray shivered as he glanced over at a battered Knight floating in a vat of inky red liquid, his neck twisted at a strange angle. Murray had been there before; it wasn’t pretty.

Murray examined the faces of each of the injured Grievar as he passed. He was here for Cego.

He recognized Scout Cydek’s purelight talent—Shiar—sitting up in a small cot with his arms crossed behind his head. “More water, and where is that omelet I asked for?!” the little snot was shouting at the clerics who were servicing him, as if the medward were some sort of luxury inn. Cego would be nearby.

Murray found Cego laid out several cots down. The kid was sitting up against the wall, his golden eyes focused on the window across from him, where the rain was pattering against the glass.

“Seems like we’ve been here before, huh, kid?” Murray sat down awkwardly in a small chair next to the cot.

Cego didn’t respond; he continued to stare blankly out at the rain.

Murray knew how it was. Having reality distorted. Thinking certain rules applied to the world around you and then having those rules broken—the world permanently altered. Cego’s mind would need time to heal properly.

“I wanted to tell you about the Sim beforehand. But it wouldn’t have done you any good in there,” Murray said.

Cego didn’t respond. Murray hadn’t even seen the kid blink yet.

“I know things seem darked up right now. What’s real and what’s not. But I can tell you something that’s real. You passed.”

Cego’s eyes focused, his pupils dilating. He looked toward Murray.

“I passed?”

“I’d bet Ruby on it that you did,” Murray said. “Kid, your performance in there was… extraordinary.”

Cego nodded and looked back out the window. The two sat for several minutes, the rain filling the silence with its rhythmic patter.

Murray broke the silence. He had to ask. “I know what it’s like for you right now. First time out of a Sim. But I have to ask. How… How did you do it?”

Cego looked over at him, his golden eyes flashing back and forth. The kid knew something. He was deciding whether he could trust Murray.

“I understand. You can’t trust everyone. Can’t trust most modernday, even here in the Citadel. I’m on your side, though,” Murray whispered.

Cego nodded slowly as he began to speak, his voice coarse. “I don’t really know. It’s hard to explain… I’m afraid I might sound crazy.”

“I’ve seen and done some crazy things in my years, kid—don’t worry,” Murray said.

Cego breathed out. “I was there before, Murray-Ku. The Island, Far— That old man. I’ve been there before; I’ve seen him before,” Cego whispered.

“You mean you’ve entered that Sim before? Murray asked. “Did you somehow have access to it during your brooding?”

Perhaps Cego wasn’t the poor lacklight he’d thought he was. Murray had heard rumors of the Twelve gaining access to all sorts of tech. Maybe they were even plugged into the Sim somehow.

“Yes. I mean no. It’s different than that. I didn’t ever access anything…” Cego paused, taking another deep breath. “That’s where I grew up. That Island—that’s where I’m from.”

Cego’s golden irises flared as he looked Murray in the eyes. The kid looked back out the window.

Murray didn’t say anything.
He grew up on the Island—in the Sim?
His mind raced.

“You… mean… you have memories from the Island? That’s how you knew how to navigate it?” Murray prodded.

Cego took a moment to answer. “It’s more than memories, Murray-Ku. That’s
all
I have. Everything I remember before I ended up in the Underground. That’s where I was. On the Island, with him and my…” The kid trailed off.

Murray tried to keep his eyes hard, concealing the thoughts running through his mind. Could Thaloo somehow have had access to the Sim? Perhaps that Deep scum was putting kids in there to make them last longer in his Circles. To squeeze more bits out of them.

“The old Guardian… er… … man. He trained you?” Murray asked.

“He taught me everything I know. Besides the past few months with you,” Cego replied.

Murray nodded. The kid actually believed he’d lived on the Island. In the Sim. The rain fell harder outside.

“I’m sorry,” Cego said.

“Why should you be sorry?” Murray asked. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, kid. You did great in there. I was proud.”

“I knew something was different, though,” Cego said. “Right when we arrived Surface-side on the Lift. I thought we’d be coming back up…
there
. The Island. The blue skies. But instead, we ended up… here.”