“Overly creative,” Murray had told him. “Emeralyis will make you think you’re a painter, creatin’ new works across the Circle’s canvas—techniques you’ve just now invented.”
Cego didn’t feel any more creative, standing just past the steel frame on the slippery canvas. He could only concentrate on the man standing across from him.
The man creaked his head from side to side, his neck popping loudly each time. He turned around. His face was completely veiled in a black fabric. Two burning yellow eyes pierced a small slit above his nose. He was thick, nearly twice the width of Cego.
The veiled man spoke in a whisper. “Take me down.”
Cego understood. He’d practiced in the gi with Murray for several weeks now. He’d need to take the man to the ice somehow.
Cego approached in a crouch. The gi uniforms would make this a game of grips. The fighter who established dominant grips on his opponent’s gi uniform would have the control for a proper throw or takedown.
Cego feinted as if he were about to shoot low, before taking a quick inside step and reaching for his opponent’s gi lapel. Just as he expected, the man’s arm shot out like a piston, reaching for his own lapel. Though Cego was able to secure a grip, the man mirrored it and grabbed onto his collar.
Now the real test began. Cego pulled with his grip, testing his opponent’s reaction. The man was like a rock. He didn’t waver. Cego tested him to both sides, seeing if he’d shuffle his feet, but again, he didn’t even react.
Cego knew he needed to take action, fast, or his opponent would first. He yanked the man’s collar again, hard this time, looking for any reaction at all. The man’s feet slid forward on the ice slightly.
It was enough of a sign for Cego. As his opponent’s body moved toward him, he stepped between the man’s legs with one foot and swiveled his other foot outwards. He bent his knees while launching his hip into the man’s waist, attempting to leverage him up and over his back. Seoi nage. He’d practiced the shoulder throw with Murray for the past several weeks.
His opponent countered expertly. As Cego pushed into him, the man arched his back, drove his hips forward, and lifted Cego into the air, heaving him up to eye level and letting him fall onto the ice with a thud. Urisho goshi. The air burst from Cego’s lungs on impact, leaving him breathless on the cold ice.
His opponent stood above him, his eyes searing from beneath his veil. “Take me down,” he repeated.
Cego stood slowly, a dull pain arcing down his back. He approached the man again. The man’s hand shot out and grasped Cego’s lapel. Cego countered with his own grip. They circled each other, matching sleeve grips on each side.
After attempting Seoi nage, Cego knew he could never win that game. His opponent’s reactions and stability were masterful. Cego’s throws were not nearly good enough. Cego needed to go after the legs. He’d drilled single- and double-leg takedowns with Farmer since he could walk. That was Cego’s game. Though the ice prevented him from shooting from too far out, he knew there was an opportunity to attack with a closer shot.
The man was standing upright, stiff-backed, which seemed a prime opportunity to go after his legs. When Cego tested his reactions and lowered his base, though, he could feel the firm grips preventing him from getting any mobility. The man was like a statue, holding Cego in place. Cego needed to break a grip and get in close enough to clinch.
Cego released both of his grips and double-handed one of the man’s wrists, yanking sharply at his sleeve to try and break his grasp. It didn’t budge. The man’s vise-like fingers didn’t even seem to strain as Cego tugged at them full force several times.
The man exploded forward, quick-stepping past Cego and sweeping his leg out from under him while throwing him toward the ground with his collar grip. Osoto gari. Cego’s shoulder exploded against the ice, sending a blast of pain down his spine.
The man stepped back, again repeating the monotone words. “Take me down.”
Cego felt the doubt closing in on him, constricting his movements, making him second-guess his techniques. How would he ever get this man to the ground? He couldn’t take a long-distance shot because of the slippery ice. He couldn’t match the man throw to throw. He was like a wall; he wouldn’t budge. His grips were vise-like; there’s no way Cego could execute his takedowns without breaking them.
Cego stood again, grimacing. The man didn’t move. Cego approached. They gripped up.
Cego stared into the man’s glowing yellow eyes. They were completely expressionless, robotic.
Perhaps Cego wasn’t meant for the Lyceum. Though he’d done well in the Underground, this was different. He didn’t have the training, the genetics that the purelights did. It would be easy to give up. Call out to whoever was judging him that he’d forfeit.
Sometimes, we need to lose to win, Farmer’s voice whispered.
Cego wanted to yell back into his head, wherever the old master lived in there. What more could he possibly lose? He’d tried every course of action, and all paths led to the same result: lying flat on his back on the cold ice.
Suddenly, it dawned on him.
The cold. He needed to lose something in order to gain something. That was it. Cego’s mind raced as he charted a course of action.
He yanked at his opponent’s gi, just to assure him he was still putting up a fight. As expected, the man barely reacted, keeping his posture straight and his grips on Cego’s gi, as tight as ever.
Cego yanked again, this time harder, looking for the slightest reaction. His opponent slid forward on the ice again. Just at that moment, Cego loosened his arms in his gi jacket and twisted his shoulders forward. His opponent’s hands remained vise-like on the gi, allowing Cego to slide out of the jacket into the cold air.
The frost hit Cego again like a kick to the stomach, immediately stifling his breath. It felt as if his blood had stopped flowing, frozen within his veins. But he was free.
Cego shot forward with lightning speed, unencumbered and lithe without the uniform, and wrapped his arms around his opponent’s waist, the man still tightly grasping the gi that Cego had slid out of. Cego drove forward with every ounce of strength he had, wrapping his foot behind the man’s knee as he pushed.
Caught off balance, the man began to topple over, his feet frantically attempting to grip the slippery ice.
Cego smiled slightly as he felt his opponent fall backward beneath him. He had sacrificed his gi, his only heat source, in order to get inside on his opponent with enough speed. Just as he was congratulating himself on the crafty maneuver, Cego was suddenly going head over heels in the air again. His opponent had framed his feet on Cego’s hips as he was going down.
The man pushed out with his feet as he rolled over his shoulder, throwing Cego into the air and again slamming him onto the ice. Tomoe nage. The man landed on top of Cego in mount.
Farmer’s voice again echoed in Cego’s head, scolding him. Victory is sitting at home by the fire long after the fight. He’d celebrated the takedown too early. He hadn’t anticipated the counter roll.
This time, his opponent did not stand up. He crushed down from on top of Cego, squeezing him against the cold ice, his bulk blocking out the light above. The man’s full weight on his chest prevented Cego from taking a full breath. The little air he did inhale was icy frost, sending chills down his throat, paralyzing his innards.
Cego tried to shrimp his hips out from the man’s crushing mount, but there was no space. Nowhere to move. No air to breathe. No options. Cego was in the darkness again.
*
Murray couldn’t help but shiver as he watched Cego up on the lightboard. He’d watched too many fall to the Ice over the years.
Murray was constantly surprised at the kid’s ingenuity. Slipping out of the gi like that and actually bringing the Guardian to the ground. He’d only seen a handful of kids ever get the Guardian to even waver. Even the giant blond boy from the outer rings hadn’t mounted any real offense like Cego had.
Th
e first stage of these Trials—the Ice, they called it—was all about each kid’s reaction to adversity. When put up against a nearly immovable opponent and the cold frost, how would each react?
Murray sat in a circular room full of Citadelians, mostly nervous Scouts who had their careers riding on the success of their talent in the Trials today. Even Command made a point to watch the Trials every year.
There were hundreds of lightboards in the room, each tuned in to the Trial of a different kid. Some of the boards had gone dark for those that were out of the running already.
Some of the kids hadn’t even made it to the Circle—they’d succumbed to the Ice, shivering and curling up on the cold tundra grounds. Others had tried relentlessly to take the Guardian down. Even after getting slammed to the ice countless times, they never changed their strategy.
Murray glanced over at Callen Albright, who was staring at Cego’s lightboard with disgust. The man had expected Cego to fail from the start.
For some, like Dakar Pugilio, who had already polished off a cask of mead, the Trials were pure entertainment. The Commander of Justice slapped the side of his chair as he downed another glass, his eyes intently watching Cego’s struggle beneath the weight of the Guardian.
“You picked a good one this year, brother Murray,” Dakar shouted. “Dark horse indeed!”
“The lacklight got lucky,” Callen sneered. “Wasn’t too smart, either, with his little maneuver there. In real combat, he’d freeze to death, crushed under his opponent.”
“That’s the point of the Trial.” Dakar straightened his back in his chair as he glowered at Callen. “Murray’s boy took a risk. He made a proper sacrifice to take the Guardian down. That’s admirable.”
“When Mercuri’s Knights are fighting for us in Circles around the world, do we want them to be admirable? Or do we want them to win? Perhaps they all should make the sacrifice of dignity like you’ve clearly done long ago, Pugilio,” Callen retorted.
Dakar stood up, red-faced. “You gutless worm, why don’t we—”
“Enough,” High Commander Memnon said from his seat in the center of the room. “We are here to watch the Trials, not participate in senseless arguments. Sit down, Dakar.”
Dakar slowly sank back into his seat, glowering.
“Your boy fared well in this Trial, Murray. But we’ll see how he does in the Arena,” Callen said. He was the type to always get the last word in.
Murray didn’t respond, keeping his eyes on Cego’s lightboard above. Cego was still pinned beneath the Guardian, struggling to escape from beneath the bulk of his opponent. His efforts would be fruitless, though; a Guardian was not just any other opponent.
The kid didn’t know the truth about the Trials. The fact that they were part of the Sim, Daimyo-tech designed to replicate real combat in a variety of environments.
Not that the Trials didn’t feel completely real. The Sim was seamless—the pain Cego was feeling right now, getting crushed against the cold ice by the Guardian on top of him, it was completely real in his head. Though any physical wounds Cego sustained in the simulation would be gone when he woke, many kids were plagued for years with mental scars from their Trials.
The Guardian was a part of the Sim. It was a near-perfect machine of combat, its only flaws purposeful parts of the code. The Guardian could appear in any number of forms—huge and immovable as a Desovian Juggernaut or wispy and untouchable as a Besaydian Vapoeria. Though the Guardian wasn’t real, it felt real when it was breaking your arms or choking the life out of you.
Murray felt something gnawing at him as he watched Cego succumb to the crushing pressure and the frigid temperature. He’d grown attached to the kid over the past few months.
Murray had told himself he wouldn’t do it again. Invest himself in one of these kids. Watch them go from scrawny, dirt-covered urchins to proud Grievar, filled with confidence and hopes of becoming a Knight someday. He’d trained countless kids in his barracks, just as he’d trained Cego, watching them harness the techniques and teachings he had passed down.
They had all broken.
Of all the talent Murray had recruited over the past decade, one boy named Tarick had gotten the furthest in Trials. The kid had made it through all the stages. But he’d still broken.
Murray could vividly remember visiting Tarick in the medward for the next month, the boy feverishly screaming out in his sleep. The kid hadn’t been able to wake up. The Sim was too powerful—it could trap minds within those strange foreign environments. Eventually, Tarick’s body had given way.
After Tarick, Murray had sworn he wouldn’t get attached again. He’d keep doing what the Citadel forced on him, but he wouldn’t invest himself in their sick experiments. The whole thing—digging up broken kids from the Deep, building them up, and breaking them again during the Trials. Just to test them. To see if they had what it takes to become a Knight.
The worst part of it was the Sim. Grievar using Daimyo tech. High Commander Memnon had worked with the bit-minders to develop the technology as another weapon to give Mercuri’s Grievar the edge. A way to keep their Knights training day and night without wearing out. A new tool to test his Knights in various foreign environments from the comfort of the Citadel’s walls.
They expanded the Sim from training environments for the Knights to the Trials. The Citadel didn’t want its newest and most promising students to be physically injured going into the Lyceum, so they put them through the Sim. Within the virtual environment, they could probe at every potential weakness a Trial-taker might have.
A few of the smaller nations like Besayd still ran live Trials, but Mercuri had long advanced past those times. The Sim was more efficient and, in some ways, more brutal. It got inside the kids’ heads.
Now, Murray watched helplessly as another of his kids was broken. Though Cego was strong, Tarick had also been strong.
Cego’s lightboard screen above wavered. It wasn’t the screen itself that was shifting—the Sim was changing. The frosty tundra began to fade around Cego’s inert body. The Guardian on top of Cego shimmered and faded as well, just another part of the Sim. Another illusion of the bit-minders. A theatre of light and dark, particles playing their parts to simulate reality.
Soon, only Cego remained on the screen, a small boy floating in a sea of darkness.
*
Cego’s eyes fluttered open.
Instinctively, he thrust his hips backward, shrimping out from the immovable weight he believed to still be mounted on top of him. There was no resistance, though. His opponent was gone. He was alone in the darkness.
Cego stood gingerly, his body beaten and bruised from getting thrown against the ice so many times. He put his hand to his cheek. His skin was raw, ripped up from the man’s gi grinding against it.
Had he failed the Trials? Though Cego had initiated a takedown and thrown his opponent off balance, he had ended up on bottom. Crushed. Perhaps this is where they transferred the kids who didn’t pass the Trials, keeping them in the dark until the rest had finished.
Cego crept forward in the darkness, his eyes eagerly searching for even the slightest prick of light, his ears perked up for any sound beyond his own rapid breathing.
Though his senses had little to work with, he sought out every detail of the world around him. The floor was covered in thick cobwebs, like soft tufts of grass beneath Cego’s naked feet. His vat-hide boots were gone.
Cego took a deep breath. He savored the air in his lungs. Warm, thick air. He certainly wasn’t on the icy tundra any longer.
He listened to his heartbeat. It was heavier than usual—he could feel the blood pumping in his arms, at the base of his skull.
As he focused, Cego began to see the darkness. Maybe it was just in his mind—it certainly did not become lighter—yet he could see its form now, the empty corridor a flat plane in front of him.
Just as light has form, so does darkness, said Farmer.
Suddenly, the darkness was pierced by a glowing
wisp that ignited in front of Cego’s eyes, casting shadows along the long stone walls. A spectral.
Though the wisp didn’t look any different from the millions floating across Mercuri, Cego knew the spectral hovering in front of his face. It was the same spectral that had kept him company in his little cell down in the Deep for so long. It was the same spectral that had appeared in Thaloo’s yard on the day he’d faced off with Weep. This was his spectral. Cego could feel its light, and somehow, it felt unique, like the warm embrace of an old friend.
The spectral slowly floated away from him, pulsing as if it were bidding him to follow.
“Where are you taking me, little one?” Cego whispered as he stepped forward. Speaking with the wisp again somehow felt right, and it certainly wasn’t the strangest thing going on in the Trials.
As Cego moved farther down the corridor, he noticed a faint thumping. At first, he thought the rhythm was his own heightened heartbeat—he half expected some horror to leap from the shadows ahead. Cego realized the thumping wasn’t coming from within, though. The webs along the wall were bouncing to the rhythm. The beat became louder as he continued on; he could feel the vibrations in the floor beneath him.
The little spectral stopped several meters ahead of Cego. The wisp cast its light on a dead end, a solid stone wall standing in his path. Was he trapped in here? Could he have missed some ulterior passage hidden by the thick cobwebs?
The spectral pulsed, with urgency this time, getting brighter for a moment and then dimming as if it had exhausted its energy. The thumping was louder here, Cego could feel the reverberations coming from beyond the wall. He stepped forward to stand beside the little wisp, placing his hand against the stone.
What he’d thought was a wall slid open with a sudden swish, showering Cego in light and noise.
Cego stepped forward as the spectral catapulted out into the bright light. He watched as the wisp careened upward toward the blue above, joining thousands of other spectrals swirling across the sky like tufts of dandelion hair.
The Combat Codes Page 18