The Combat Codes (9 page)

Murray nodded and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “He could be the one, Anderson. I’ve watched him fight. The kid moves like… like, him. I don’t how to place it; it’s just the way he fights.”

Anderson was quiet for a moment. “He’s gone, you realize. He said he wasn’t coming back and I don’t think he ever will. You could just be seeing him in places.”

“It’s different this time, Anderson. This kid… he fights by the Codes. You need to see the way he takes the light. I have a feeling about this one.”

Anderson nodded. “Well, what do we have, then, three weeks?”

“My body, my mind, I don’t feel like I used to,” Murray said grimly.

“We’ve done worse,” Anderson said. “I remember a time when the Mighty Murray won us the Tamal Plains. When me and Leyna broke down your tavern door morning of the fight, you were out like the great void, a girl tangled in the sheets with you. All it took was a bucket of cold water and a hearty meal—you were ready to go. Took that Desovian down within a minute and went to work as usual. It’ll be the same this time around, old friend. Work as usual.”

Murray nodded affirmatively. “Work as usual.”

Anderson gestured toward the basement. “I’ve got the old mats and pads down below; shall we get started?”

“Never a time like right now,” Murray muttered wearily.

The two old Grievar creaked down the stairs into the basement.

*

Cego was dreading his final day in the yard.

Tasker Ozark had lost any potential cut of the profit from Murray’s deal with Thaloo because of its unique unpaid nature. Ozark took out his frustration on Circle Crew Nine.

The training in the yard was even more grueling than usual. Ozark had the entire crew doubling up on all the standard drills. A few of the boys were worked so hard, they didn’t make it back to the bunks on their own two feet.

Weep took the worst of it. He was in and out of Thaloo’s makeshift medward for exhaustion, muscle fatigue, and dehydration. They usually shot him up with some generic neurogen that convinced the boy’s brain he was fit to train, despite the fact that his body was giving way. Weep would disappear for part of the day and return to the yard with deep circles under his glazed-over eyes.

Ozark wasn’t even taking enjoyment in the crew’s suffering as usual, which worried Cego. Usually, Ozark would laugh when one of the boys went down in the dirt from exhaustion. Now, as the crew toiled, Ozark was expressionless.

Part of the deal Murray had negotiated stated that Cego would be released from Thaloo’s captivity several days prior to the Lampai fight. Murray would ensure Cego didn’t escape during that time, and if he lost the fight, Cego would be returned to Thaloo. Either way, Cego hoped his departure would provide the rest of the crew some relief from Ozark’s spite.

Which is why Cego was particularly dreading his final day in the yard.

Ozark was planning something bad. Worse than the usual. Cego really wasn’t sure what the Tasker was capable of—how far he’d be willing to take it. Although lining his bit-purse had always been Ozark’s primary incentive for the grueling training, he now seemed capable of a level of cruelty that went beyond the bits.

That day, Ozark had them doing all the standard tasks: sloth carries, rope runs, dog crawls, last boy hanging. So far, nothing beyond the standard level of exhaustion.

Cego hung onto his rope as last rays of dusklight cut through the yard’s street-level grates. He dropped nimbly into a crouch as Weep’s grasp began to shiver beside him.

Ozark was facing away from the crew, staring out at the dusklight. He slowly turned, looking directly at Cego.

Perhaps it wasn’t just the fact that Cego had usurped Ozark’s control over the crew or made him appear incompetent. Maybe it wasn’t even that Cego’s patronage cut Ozark out of the deal.

Cego could see that this cut deeper for Ozark. Like any Grievar, Ozark strove to find his lightpath. Ozark probably wasn’t skilled enough to fight for the Citadel or even to become a well-paid merc. So, he’d turned to one of the least honorable careers a Grievar could find—Tasker.

A Tasker didn’t even make an honest living with his own two fists. Instead, he profited off of the skill of other fighters. Ozark licked up Thaloo’s scraps every day, hungering for wins and sales. It was a pitiful existence—one that filled this man with uncertainty, fear, and anger.

Ozark’s robotic voice echoed off of the yard’s stone walls. “We’re going to make some changes on this fine dusklight, little scumlings. You all look weak in the Circle. Even when you win, it looks weak.” He stared directly at Cego, with his crooked teeth bared.

“No killer instinct in the lot of you. I need you to start going for the kill. Patrons pay for killers, not for weak-willed scumlings.”

The Tasker continued, “We need more live combat, more than just these tasks. Think of it like fighting in the Circle, except without the light and the crowd. Just two Grievar fighting for the finish like it was meant to be.”

Cego didn’t like where this was going.

“We start this now,” Ozark said. “Form a ring, two of you in the middle.”

Ozark stared down the line of boys and his eyes fell again on Cego. “You, get in there.”

Cego knew he had to keep his calm. He stepped into the middle as the rest of the boys circled around him.

Ozark’s voice grated, “Weep, get in there with him.”

The little boy walked into the middle of the circle robotically. Weep looked like he could barely stand. His blank stare was focused at the dusklight in the distance, as if the neuros had him occupying in a completely different world.

Ozark barked, “In this yard, I am the light. Only I tell you when it’s done. If I don’t say stop, you keep fighting. Disobey me and things get worse.”

Cego’s mind raced. That had been Ozark’s attack—having him fight Weep. Farmer always said there was a parry to every punch, an escape to every submission. What was the escape here?

There was no way Cego would hurt Weep. But if he refused to fight, Cego knew it would end up far worse for the entire crew. If anything, he wanted to let Weep win, whatever it took. But Weep wasn’t in any condition to win convincingly, even if Cego opened up his defenses. Weep was barely standing, let alone fighting. He should be in the medward right now.

“Go!” Ozark stood with his arms crossed as he waited for the two boys to fight for him.

Cego looked into Weep’s eyes. He needed to communicate with the boy somehow, wake him up. Cego needed Weep to attack him and convincingly beat him.

Cego put his hands up and got into a fighting posture, slowly circling Weep. He threw a few feints—maybe he could get him to snap out of the stupor. The little boy didn’t respond, though; he stood lifelessly, not even flinching as Cego’s fist passed right in front of his face.

Cego thought back to the moment in the yard when Weep had first lifted Dozer onto his shoulders. It was months ago, but it felt like a lifetime since he’d first come to Thaloo’s, to the Underground.

Cego’s time in the Deep had taught him of the greed, corruption, and fear that made this place work. Folk like Tasker Ozark ruled this Underground world. Those who stood on the sidelines, away from the action and the real hardship, yet constantly frothed at the mouth and shouted for the kill. Folk like Thaloo thrived here—those who profited and got fatter off of the sweat and blood of young Grievar.

But there had been light in the darkness. When Weep had carried Dozer on his shoulders in the yard that day, Cego had seen it in the boy’s eyes. Weep’s eyes had been luminous, as if he could suddenly see the path laid out in front of him.

Seeing Weep like that had given Cego strength. The whole crew finally working together, running as one cohesive unit and using leverage to their advantage—the thought of that moment filled Cego with light. Seeing Dozer and Knees opening their minds to learn new techniques and finally standing up to Shiar. There
had
been light in the darkness. Cego could almost feel it now, filling his belly with each breath.

Suddenly, Cego realized he
was
feeling the light. A lone, pulsing spectral hovered between Weep and Cego. It was
Cego’s
spectral, the one that had first visited him in his cell. He was certain this was the same wisp.

The crew and Ozark stared at the spectral with their mouths agape. There was no array in the yard to attract spectrals like there was in Thaloo’s Circle. Here in the yard, where street urchins and orphans toiled and followed broken lightpaths, spectrals never appeared.

Cego knew he was not the one that needed the light, though. Weep needed it like water, like nourishment, like life. Weep needed the strength to attack him, to beat him, and to finish him so that this day could be over.

As if the spectral could hear Cego’s thoughts, it slowly floated toward Weep, shining brightly down on him. The little boy’s eyes suddenly became lifelike again—first a glimmer and then a bright yellow flare within his irises. Like he’d woken from a dream, Weep looked around the yard and breathed deeply.

Cego caught Weep’s eye successfully this time. He knew the two would have to act quickly if this fight was to be convincing. He began to move in on Weep again, throwing feints in his direction. Weep now responded accordingly, moving his head side to side and shuffling his feet to match Cego’s stance as if the two were dance partners. The spectral buzzed around Weep, following his every movement.

Cego threw a quick jab at Weep, aimed just below the chin, which the boy blocked, though barely. Cego couldn’t slow down his strikes too much or Ozark would discover the game they were playing.

Cego threw a combination this time, a quick jab and a cross, as Weep continued to play defense with his hands up. The boy blocked one of the strikes but the other grazed his ear, knocking his head to side jarringly.

Cego shot in for a quick double-leg takedown. He slowed just enough to telegraph the shot so that Weep could play the proper defense and sprawl his legs out.

Weep was doing well, better than Cego had expected. The boy even followed up his sprawl with a series of sharp elbows to the side of Cego’s exposed head as he drove in. The elbows reopened the scar tissue on a gash just above Cego’s eye, creating an immediate streak of blood on his face.

Cego knew exactly what he needed to do to get Weep to capitalize on the position and go for the finish. The final steps of this dance were laid out in front of him.

Cego gave up on the takedown attempt, falling to his knees as if his legs had given out with Weep bearing down on him. He ended up on his knees and elbows with his head on the floor—turtle position. Weep would know what do here; Cego had practiced this maneuver with him nearly every day.

Just as expected, Weep capitalized on Cego’s turtle defense. He swiveled around Cego while keeping his weight on him, then threw one foot over Cego’s hip, hooking just above the knee. Weep grasped his hands around Cego’s shoulder with an over-under grip, and slid under him as he threw another hook in.

Weep had taken his back beautifully.

The crew around them cheered as Weep started to fight for a choke. Cego played the proper defense, making it difficult for Weep to slide his forearm across his neck, constantly pulling the boy’s hands off as he tried to dig them in. Cego could feel the spectral hovering over them, basking the two boys in its warm glow.

Finally, Weep convincingly caught one of Cego’s defending arms under his leg, making it a two-on-one race to the finish. Now was the time. Weep needed to capitalize on the advantage and go for the finish. There wouldn’t be a better moment.

In one fluid movement, Weep stripped away Cego’s remaining arm with one hand and slid his other hand under Cego’s chin. He’d locked on the choke. Weep started to squeeze, constricting the arteries on both sides of Cego’s neck to stop the flow of blood to the brain. Excellent form. Cego could feel himself start to get lightheaded. He needed to hold his smile at the thought of Weep choking him unconscious.

Just as the blackness closed around him, Cego heard Ozark shout from the sidelines.

“Don’t let go of that choke.”

*

Sam shot in and Cego threw his legs back into a quick sprawl, pressing his weight down on his little brother’s shoulders until he curled up onto his knees. Cego swiveled around to Sam’s side.

Farmer watched from just outside the ironwood Circle, the old master’s glowing eyes appraising the techniques of his students as they sparred. He wore his usual robe, a loose brown fabric with sleeves that cut off just under the elbow. Tattoos crept down his forearms onto his wrists, and his grey hair fell to his shoulders in a loose knot. Arry sat obediently at the old master’s side, standing on her hind legs and yipping when one of the brothers made a sudden movement.

The Circle was set in the courtyard at the center of the old master’s compound—an open-air garden enshrined with the soft glow of lichen tendrils that grew along the clay walls. The rest of the compound was centered around the Circle, as were the brother’s lives.

Cego and Sam spent the near entirety of their days on the Island training within the Circle. Rest was a footnote in Cego’s life—when he lay down on his pallet at night, it was merely to pass the time until training the next morning.

Cego pressed down on Sam, throwing a warning shot at his brother’s ear, reminding him to cover up. Sam wasn’t reacting the way he normally did. He’d normally give Cego a spirited fight, leaving the two brothers panting on their backs as they lay on the Circle’s spongy canvas.

This Circle was their home. The brothers spent the majority of every day in it, training from when twilight peeked over the emerald sea until they lay exhausted on the canvas floor in the fading dusk light.

His two brothers had always been his opponents in the Circle. They fought viciously until one of them was unable to continue—unconscious on the canvas or with a limb wrenched at the wrong angle. Cego was never angry at his brothers for hurting him, though.

Farmer had always said,
your opponent is your teacher
, and, as usual, the old master was right. Though Farmer had taught Cego all of his techniques, his skills had been honed by constantly battling his brothers. Testing new attacks and combinations on Sam. Getting smashed by Silas—defending or just trying to survive.