Aon’s words quieted the room. Dakar’s face was no longer red with anger; he breathed evenly as he listened. Even Memnon had stopped pacing, pausing for a brief moment to stare into Aon’s milky eyes.
Callen broke the quiet. “That is all good and well, Commander Farstead, but bluntly, I don’t hear anything beyond the sound of Mercuri getting crushed under our competitors. Perhaps in your considerable age, you are hearing things?”
Memnon’s brow creased; he opened his mouth to reprimand Callen’s blatant disrespect, but Aon lifted his frail hand to hold him off.
Aon smiled through his thin lips. “It is said that Grievar infants, fresh from the womb, can hear the light most ably. Infants are pure, untainted by the world around them, their eyes not yet formed to see the petty underpinnings of grown folk. Perhaps that is why I can also hear the light so clearly—my years put me closer to the end, or the beginning, and with that comes a purity that dispels all the distractions of this world. I can hear the light, Commander Callen, and it whispers no longer.”
Callen had stopped listening to Aon long ago, his eyes shifting back and forth calculatingly. “Yes, yes. That’s all great, Commander Farstead. But on the subject of strange myths, as you so often bring us in the direction of, I’d like to revisit a portion of the Trials. The Combat Codes.”
Memnon spoke up. “Callen, we discussed this during our last Command meeting and decided it’s better left as is, for this year at least.”
“Yes, I know, High Commander, but I felt the need to bring it up again. The ‘light’ told me I needed to.” Callen smirked toward Aon. “I just feel that of all the Trial protocol in place, the Codes are the part that is least applicable to getting Mercuri where it needs to be. How does deciphering ancient Grievar texts, which really have no place in society today, have anything to do with bettering our teams? What good do some words have in making a better fighter in the Circle?”
Memnon shook his head. “Callen, I like what you bring to this team. A youthful perspective. We need that; we need to change things up in order to get Mercuri back to where it was. But change can’t always happen as fast as you’d like. We’re already making major overhauls. We need to take things one step at a time.”
Callen replied, “Do you think the Desovians are taking things one step at a time, spending valuable resources having their Knights recite old, forgotten texts? No, they are providing them with the newest neurotech and training them round the clock, making them into killers. When one of Mercuri’s Knights goes up against a Desovian, he may well be able to recite some ancient text by heart, but then he’ll get ground into the dirt by a better-trained Grievar.”
Memnon was pacing around the room again. The Desovians did forego many of the Codes over a decade ago in lieu of more modern training philosophies: neurostimulant transfusions, organized breeding programs. They’d taken nearly sixty percent of disputes against Mercuri until Memnon had made the decision to start playing catch-up.
Aon seemed to sense Memnon’s hesitation, Callen’s calculated words playing on the High Commander’s paranoia. “The Combat Codes are a part of us, High Commander. Since the beginning. The Codes are as much of a Grievar’s makeup as are our fists, elbows, and knees, or our techniques that have been learned and passed down from the Ancients.”
Memnon stopped pacing again as he listened to Aon speak.
“The Trials are an introduction, a test to those worthy Grievar that would become learned within the halls of our Lyceum and, eventually, forces of justice to fight for the downtrodden in our courts or Knights to represent us in the world’s arena. Each Trial is representative of a hallmark of Grievar skill and character. To remove Codes from the Trials would mean removing a piece of ourselves,” Aon said.
Memnon nodded. “Aon is right, Callen. We cannot remove Codes from the Trials. Getting rid of them would mean reworking the whole process. They stay for now. However, I will consider giving the Codes less weight in overall scoring.”
Callen leaned back into his chair, smirking.
“Command, thank you for coming today. You are dismissed.” Memnon signaled with the Grievar salute, a fist held in the air.
“Ossu,” the three Commanders replied in unison, lifting their fists.
Aon creaked from his seat, slowly moving toward the doorway without the aid of vision. Dakar stood up and walked beside Aon, “I’m headin’ the same way you are, old friend; need a hand to get back to your branch?”
Aon smiled as the doors slid open in front of him. “Thank you, Commander Pugilio, but no, this old Grievar can make do.”
Callen remained seated after the other two had left, looking up at Memnon with his arresting yellow eyes.
“Don’t you want to know where we are… with that other program of ours?” Callen asked.
Memnon shook his head, quieting Callen. “Do not speak of that here, Commander Albright.”
Callen nodded. “All right. Well, things are going according to plan, if you’d like to know. We have a subject going into the Trials next week. It shall be enlightening to watch them, to say the least.”
Memnon nodded and turned, exiting through the sliding doors.
The High Commander walked briskly, his pace increasing as he moved away from the meeting room. He had to keep moving. The Desovians were moving, getting ahead. The Kirothians wouldn’t stop, so he couldn’t.
Memnon couldn’t stop moving or the shadows would catch him.
*
Murray whisked Cego out of his barracks just as dawn broke, the two hooded with thick cloaks to shield them from the cutting sheets of rain.
Today was the start of the Trials. Murray wanted Cego to see the city from the ground before his test, even though the two could more easily take a pod directly to the Citadel.
Murray’s barracks were located on the east side of Mercuri on the edge of Karsh, a small Grievar-designated district whose inhabitants were mostly Kirothian immigrants. Most of the Kirothians in Mercuri were secluded in the dregs of the city; living elsewhere, they would face the bigotry of proud Mercurians. The immigrants were hated because Kiroth was Mercuri’s rival nation, another powerhouse of Grievar-might that controlled much of the world’s resources.
Over the past century, the two nations had gone head to head in numerous bouts. The disputes were most fierce over one area rich in elemental deposits along the Adar ridge, aptly called the Auralite Spine. The Spine had changed hands between Kiroth and Mercuri numerous times, each nation wresting control from the other and then conceding it again as the strength of their current Grievar champions ebbed and waned.
Nearly two decades ago, Murray could remember winning the Spine for Mercuri in a grueling fight against Drogo Salizar, one of Kiroth’s best fighters at the time. Murray had returned home to Mercuri to the blast of a thousand horns, the citizenry cheering him on as he was paraded down the central artery.
Since his demotion from the service, Murray had taken residence in Karsh to escape the fanfare of the city. Though it was considered the dregs, Murray enjoyed living amongst the immigrant population. He’d come to realize that the Kirothians here were no different from him. They’d come to Mercuri during a time of relative prosperity—seeking a better life for themselves and their children. They were following their path.
A curly-haired lady sitting under the awning of her house smiled at the two as they passed by. She used a pumice to rhythmically grind away at the contents of a large clay pot set in front of her.
A thin, balding man lifted a gate to a shotgun building. The man flashed a wide smile at Murray as he passed. “My-tee Moo-ray, bright morn!” the man yelled in a thick Kirothian accent through the rain as he waved enthusiastically.
“Bright morn to you, Santil,” Murray yelled back. This morning was anything but bright, yet Santil always managed to have a wide smile on his face.
The two continued through the neighborhood, passing shops and homes that were just waking up. The familiar smell of baked sponge bread wa
fted to his nose. The Kirothians only cooked the delicacy once every month, rationing out small portions of the bread every day to their hungry families.
Murray looked down to Cego, who also sniffed at the yeasty aroma in the air.
When they’d first arrived Upworld on the Lift, Cego’s expression had been one of complete surprise. Though onyx storms only happened a few times per year, most of the kids Murray brought Surface-side were already familiar with such weather patterns. Cego had pressed his face to the glass window, staring out at the storm in awe.
Murray had meant to ask Cego about his brooding several times over the past month, but he’d held his tongue. He didn’t want to dredge up any bad memories for the kid—wherever he’d come from, it couldn’t have been good. Going into the Trials with a clouded mind could be an especially dangerous thing.
Two kids, a few years younger than Cego, fell across their path, play-fighting in the rain outside of their house. Cego stopped abruptly—his shoulders tensing in anticipation.
One of the kids tossed the other to the muddy ground. The other boy, likely his brother, quickly pushed away and sprang back to his feet, laughing.
Cego watched the brothers with wide eyes. “They’re… having fun?”
“Yeah. That’s how it’s supposed to be,” Murray responded. “We’re born to fight. Modernday… things are more complicated.”
The two trudged through the muddy streets to the edge of Karth and beyond into Mercuri’s central sector. The Courthouse’s domed roof came into view over the tightly packed roofs of dilapidated buildings.
Some of the buildings were completely torn apart—eroded by weather and time and never fixed. The servicers didn’t come this way for repairs; there weren’t any bits in fixing up the dregs.
The Daimyo Governance would rather concentrate on creating new, high-profile projects like Albright Stadium. The bit-rich had already bought out front-row tickets at the Citadel’s new arena. Meanwhile, Murray could literally see through the crumbling wall of a building here in the dregs, where a lady was hopelessly attempting to hang her clothes to dry.
As they moved closer to the Courthouse, the sky darkened and the rain fell even harder. Cego peered out from beneath his hood to survey the folk around them. Clumps of them hid in the shadows under the eaves of the surrounding buildings to shield themselves from the rain, some attempting to keep warm by small bonfires.
Other folk stood openly in the elements, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. They were disoriented, stumbling around, shouting incoherently against the wind.
One lady with gnarled hair blocked their path, unaware that they were standing right in front of her. She held a small metallic cylinder up to her eyeball and pressed the button on the back. A short blast of light pulsed from the cylinder directly into her eye. The lady fell back into the mud, her eyes rolling back into her head and her face going slack.
“Cleavers,” Murray explained dryly to Cego as they continued past the lady. “Addicts.”
Photocleaving—a pulse of light directly to the retina that felt like the light of a real spectral swarm. The high only lasted about thirty minutes and then the user needed another blast. Murray shook his head. Somewhere out there, Daimyos were making a bit-fortune off of the mass of cleaver addicts in this city.
Murray and Cego continued on through the wreckage until they arrived at the very center of the city.
A sprawling domed building with a dirt lawn rose above the surrounding dregs—the Courthouse. The Courthouse’s marbled dome had originally been painted a brilliant white. The grand set of stairs leading to the glimmering steel Courthouse doors had once been magnificent—symbols of the path to PublicJustice. Go through those doors, and no matter who you were, you had a chance to get justice.
Now, the Courthouse façade was dulled and streaked with darkness like the rest of the surrounding dregs. Half of the stairs had completely eroded, and rust covered the great steel doors. More destitute congregated in front of the Courthouse steps.
“What are those folk waiting for?” Cego asked.
“Waiting their turn for processing,” Murray said. “They’ve got grievances to file with the courts. If they’re heard, they’ll be assigned a Defender to represent them in the Circle. Win them their justice.”
Murray didn’t tell Cego the rest of the story. The truth. The fact that PublicJustice was a darkin’ lie, a veil the Daimyo Governance put up to keep the masses in check. These folk wouldn’t find any justice behind the steel doors of the Courthouse.
Murray looked back down at Cego, who was staring up at the Courthouse steps with those wide eyes.
The kid didn’t deserve Murray’s truth.
*
Last night, restlessly turning in his makeshift cot out by Ruby’s soft red glow, Cego had replayed every possible scenario of the Trials in his head. He still wasn’t ready.
He looked down the road toward the Citadel’s oldest building—the Lyceum. The school sprawled out in front of him, grey ruins that curled along one side of the trench that surrounded the Citadel. Two rotundas anchored the Lyceum on either side, each capped with a glowing dome.
“The sister domes of the Lyceum,” Murray noted. “Trials are held in the Valkyrie, classes in the Harmony.”
They passed between several sets of pillars, each with elegantly carved statues standing atop them. Cego’s heart began to race as they climbed a short pair of steps and neared the entrance to the Valkyrie. Even through the din of the heavy rain, he could hear voices echoing from within.
A covered open-air walkway fed directly into the majestic rotunda. Hundreds of spectral torches filled the hall, casting flickering shadows up and down the tall walls. Stone pillars circled the room, each engraved top to bottom with ancient sigils.
There were hundreds of kids within the Valkyrie’s round walls. Murray directed Cego to the base of one of the pillars. “All right, kid, now we wait. Old Aon should be out shortly for the commencement.”
Cego nodded and glanced around him at the assortment of Grievar brood. They were all shapes and sizes. Some were stretching on the stone floor while others warmed up by jogging around the perimeter of the room.
Cego’s eyes were immediately drawn to a massive blond boy, his cheeks rounded into a strange smile, who stood like a giant amongst his peers. Two mercs stood at either side of him.
“Who is that?” Cego whispered.
Murray was looking at the giant boy with a deep frown on his face. “Brood of the harvesters. Scouts nabbed him from the outer rings,” Murray said. “No better than Thaloo’s slavers.”
Cego continued to scan the room, trying to push down the butterflies that were swelling in the pit of his stomach.
A tightly knit pack of kids chatted noisily in the center of the rotunda, segregated from the rest who orbited the fringes. Cego noticed they wore pressed uniforms, many emblazoned with colorful emblems.
“Purelights.” Murray saw Cego staring at the kids. “Most of ’em are likely brood of the Twelve. The big Grievar families that have been tied to the Citadel for centuries.”
Cego watched the purelights as they pointed at the blond giant and laughed, their glowing yellow eyes flickering against the torch light. They acted as if they owned the place already.
Cego’s eyes moved away from the purelights and settled on a boy across the room. He was robed, sitting cross-legged under the shadow of a pillar. What caught Cego’s attention was the steam that steadily billowed from the top of the boy’s bald head. His eyes were closed and he breathed deeply, quietly, even amongst the commotion in the room.
Suddenly, the boy’s eyes flickered open, directly meeting Cego’s gaze. The two maintained their stare for several moments before the boy shut his eyes again and continued to breathe in silence, the steam rising from his scalp.
Cego was about to ask Murray about the boy when he noticed two others jog past him. He stared at their backs, one large boy with thick, muscled shoulders, and another l
ean one with dark hair, the two running side by side.
Something about the two boys piqued Cego’s interest—the synchronized pace they fell into as they rounded the perimeter of the circular hall. Cego’s eyes followed them as they passed to the back side of the room.
The large boy playfully pushed his running partner, throwing him toward the center of the room. The smaller boy caught his balance with a hand on the floor, turning his face in Cego’s direction. The boy grinned as he turned back to his big friend, highlighting a scar that ran across his jaw. Knees.
There was no mistaking it; it was Knees, who threw a jousting elbow into the ribs of his large companion as they began to jog again—Dozer.
Cego shook in excitement, Murray looking down at him curiously. Dozer and Knees had made it out of the Underground. They’d escaped Thaloo’s.
Cego could barely contain himself from shouting from across the room but decided to wait until Dozer and Knees circled past him again. Cego smiled at Murray and slid behind the pillar.
Just as he saw Dozer’s bulky shadow cross in front of him, Cego shot his foot across his path, a basic sweep that caught the big boy right on the ankle and sent him sprawling forward to the ground.
Cego stepped out from behind the pillar as Dozer flipped around, his face contorted in anger until he met Cego’s eyes. Knees spun around, also ready to pick a fight with whoever had messed with his big friend.
“Cego!” Dozer charged toward him and wrapped him in a crushing bear hug, only setting him down when Cego began to cough from the pressure.
“We thought we be findin’ you here.” Knees smiled and clasped Cego’s wrist firmly.
“You told me I’d make it up here! Remember, Cego?” Dozer yelled.
“You don’t know how good it is to see you two,” Cego said. Amidst the horde of strange kids crowded in the big hall, the rain thumping down on the ceiling and the Trials ahead of him, it all somehow felt all right now that Dozer and Knees were here with him.
The Combat Codes Page 16