The Combat Codes

by Alexander Darwin

  “So, you’d rather be on a team that didn’t even want you in the first place, just because they are purelights like you, than be with these folk, who picked you up and have tried their darkest to accept you?” Sol asked Mateus angrily.

  Mateus shook his head, grumbling something his mother told him about lacklights causing the spread of diseases. No matter each member’s reasons to help, it was good to know everyone was on board with plan. One weak link and the whole thing would fall apart.

  Cego had tried to explain it simply to the Whelps. “The first part of the plan is all about perceived weakness. Each team here is constantly vying for the precise opening to challenge other teams. They’re looking for the right time to strike.”

  There were constant reconnaissance efforts to see which teams might be in weakened states. If someone was hurt or got sick during training, it did not go unnoticed. The last challenge the Jackals had made occurred exactly one day after Damon Heartstead of the Burning Fists had shattered his collarbone. They were forced to fight without one of their top members, and ended up losing the challenge to Shiar’s team.

  “We have to make this seem believable,” Cego had said. “If something happens to all of us at once, the other teams will sense something’s wrong.”

  Trickery like this had certainly happened before and would happen again—it was a part of the gamesmanship at the Lyceum. The Whelps needed their weakness to seem genuine.

  Dozer was the first cog of Operation Recovery, as it ironically came to be known as. It was either that or Operation Self-Damage, which Cego thought had too much of an ominous ring to it.

  Cego and Sol had mapped out every possibility and combination of fights that needed to occur for Operation Recovery to work, and unfortunately, the plan first required Dozer to take a fall during Professor Hunt’s striking class.

  Cego knew he’d have to actually hurt his friend, as Dozer certainly wasn’t known for his acting abilities. He just had to make sure he didn’t hurt him too badly, as Dozer would need to make a full recovery by the time Shiar issued the challenge. Cego hoped his friend’s symbiot reaction was properly functioning.

  Hunt had the class hitting pads to start off, as usual. Cego nodded to Dozer as the kicking portion of the class began, silently asking his friend for forgiveness. Dozer grinned, though Cego could see the burly Grievar steeling himself in preparation.

  Dozer held up the large kick pads—it was time for builders. Cego would slowly build the number of kicks he landed, each subsequent strike landing with increased power.

  Hunt bellowed, “Go!” and the sound of shins slapping against the rubber pads echoed across the classroom.

  Cego began his builder as Dozer held his kick pad for him. His friend was crouched over the pad in the proper position, with his face tucked behind it to prevent any errant kicks. One. Cego slammed his shin into the pad. Two. He slammed two kicks in rapid succession into the pad, harder this time. Three. Three kicks in a row, with even more force. Four. Cego slammed his shin into the pad four times, almost as hard as he could.

  Five. Cego saw out of the corner of his eye Dozer had raised his face above the top of the pad. His eyes were closed—he was bracing himself. Cego didn’t want to do this.

  Cego threw four full-force kicks directly into the center of the pad. On his fifth kick, he aimed toward the top of the pad. His shin slid along and off the top edge, slamming into Dozer’s exposed chin and knocking his friend flat to the ground like a toppled tree.

  Cego knelt over Dozer, wincing as he saw the awkward angle his jaw was hanging at. Dozer opened his eyes and looked up at Cego. He tried to smile but grimaced in pain instead. Cego had done it—Dozer’s jaw was certainly broken.

  “Sorry,” Cego whispered before Hunt arrived at their side.

  “Let one get away from you there, eh, Cego?” Professor Hunt asked.

  “Yeah… I don’t know what happened,” Cego said. Some of the class had come to stand in a circle around Dozer, who was lying inertly on the floor.

  “I guess I’m just tired from all the extra classes,” Cego made sure to say that part loud enough for Shiar to hear, who, as expected, was among the group standing around Dozer. Shiar was smiling as he looked down at the fallen boy.

  “Looks like these lacklights will end up knocking each other out of the running. No need for any of us to help out,” Shiar said sarcastically.

  “Mistimed kick. Happens to the best of us,” Professor Hunt said, defending Cego. “Why, I can remember when I was at the Lyceum, we had a fella in class by the name of Tamarind Kormary, immigrant from Besayd. Huge—with thighs like tree trunks. I ended up holding pads for him, don’t know how it ended up like that, maybe I drew the short end of the straw, but anyways…”

  “Professor, don’t you think we should get Dozer to the medward?” Cego interrupted Hunt’s story, knowing the Professor wouldn’t be toward the end of it anytime soon.

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course.” Hunt helped Dozer off the ground. “I’ve seen my share of broken jaws. Looking at this one, it’ll be at least two days to get that jaw wired and set. Definitely not the worst that I’ve seen, though. Class, keep up with the builders!”

  Cego caught Shiar eying Dozer as he slowly walked away with Professor Hunt’s aid. The Jackal had caught the scent of blood.

  *

  Joba was the next piece to put into play for Operation Recovery. Though he was young, the other teams had already seen the great strength the boy possessed. A healthy Joba would be a huge disincentive for the Jackals to make their challenge.

  Abel excused himself from Professor Aon’s lecture early, leaving Cego and Sol sitting in the musty study.

  “I believe Abel has the right idea, students. If you’ll excuse me momentarily as well, a Grievar of my age needs to use the toilet more often than I’d like to admit.” Aon chuckled as he slowly made his way out the door.

  Cego and Sol sat quietly for a minute before Sol spoke up.

  “Do you really think this plan will work?” she asked. “What makes you think Shiar will actually take the bait? I mean, if it were me, I’d have made the challenge right off the bat if I thought I could beat your team.”

  “Yes. But you have honor, Sol. Shiar does not. The reason I know this plan will work is because Shiar goes after weakness. That’s how he works. It was the same in the Deep. He knew Weep was injured, literally fighting with his last breath. And he took that opportunity to attack him. This time… we’ll be ready for him,” Cego said as he clenched his fists.

  Sol regarded him silently. “Weep. Dozer and you mention him all the time. He must have been quite a Grievar to have made such an impression on you guys.”

  “Yes. He was. Not in the way you’d think, though,” Cego said. “He wasn’t stronger or faster, or even more skilled than anyone. In fact, he was the weakest of our crew. But he overcame that weakness and he kept fighting. He kept wanting to become better. I think that’s what being a Grievar is about. Not strength, or speed, or even skill, but wanting to become better.”

  Sol nodded her head. “My father used to tell me something like that. We learn more in defeat than we do in victory.”

  Cego had heard the famous saying before. Farmer had repeated it on regular occasion as well.

  “Do you see your father very often?” Cego asked.

  Sol looked down. “No. I used to. Even when he started fighting for the Citadel regularly, traveling around all the time, he’d always come back to visit. He’d show me new techniques and make sure I was progressing. Then… then my mother died and he just didn’t come by as often.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cego said.

  “Don’t be,” Sol said, fiery again. “I’ve had more opportunity than most Grievar out there. And it’s made me stronger.”

  Cego could tell Sol wanted to leave the conversation at that, so he stayed quiet until Professor Aon returned.

  After Aon’s lecture, Sol and Cego returned to Quarter D, where Abel was hunched over a de
sk with several half-full canisters of liquid set around him. The little Grievar was singing a Kirothian tune as he worked, his hands expertly distributing the liquids into a glass bottle.

  He turned as they moved forward to examine his work. “Ah—my freends! How was rest of lecture? I can take notes I miss?” Abel asked Cego.

  “I think you’d be better off with Sol’s notes,” Cego said with a chuckle as Sol nodded her head in agreement. “But tell us about your work here. Is it ready?”

  “Yes, yes. Is ready.” Abel held up the bottle of liquid in front of his eyes and swished it around. “Was dee-ficult to find right ingree-dents. Abel look in dine hall, cleaning supply, everywhere. But I make work. Will work.”

  “How did you learn how to do this, by the way?” Sol asked Abel.

  “Old Kiroth-een recipe,” he replied. “I have many sister at home. Use recipe for… how you say… make man friend sick. Then sister take care him when he sick. He very happy, stay, make baby.”

  Sol and Cego looked at each other, quiet for a moment, and then broke out in laughter.

  “What so funny?” Abel asked “This not how baby made here in Mercuri?”

  Cego tried to calm himself. “Well, I’m not an expert on the subject… but I don’t think so.”

  “Let’s hope Joba doesn’t run into any problems like that!” Sol added.

  The rest of the crew, except for Dozer, who was at the medward, soon returned after their classes. Abel patted Joba on the back and handed him the bottle of liquid. Joba looked at it, shrugged, and downed it in one huge gulp.

  “Okay,” said Cego, already feeling sorry for Joba. “Let’s get to the dining hall in time. We’ll need to make sure the Jackals are there for this.”

  The dining hall was completely full, but Cego made sure his team sat beside the Jackals. Shiar was bragging loudly about how he’d knocked someone out in striking class today.

  The Whelps sat silently. They were all waiting, their eyes occasionally flitting to Joba, who sat with an unperturbed smile on his face as he downed another glass of insta-carbs. Cego needed to make sure his crew appeared natural.

  “Mateus, pretty great that you are taking Stratagems and Maneuvers. Mind telling us how the class is going so far?” Cego asked Mateus, who was sitting across from him.

  Mateus appeared to be put off by the question first, but as he caught Cego staring at him intensely, he took the hint. “Oh, yes… yes. Professor Danahar is truly a genius,” he said loudly. “He showed us this one strategy today. It was amazing. Completely designed to make your opponent think you’re hurt when really you’re just waiting to throw the counter. In fact, ooof—”

  Sol had elbowed Mateus under the table. “What the? Why’d you—” Mateus suddenly realized what he’d been saying.

  Cego glared at him. Luckily, Shiar didn’t seem to be paying attention.

  Cego checked on Joba and had to double-take as he stared at the huge boy. Joba’s face had completely changed colors to a shade of dark green. He looked panicked.

  “Um… you all right there, Joba?” Cego asked, though he knew his friend was not all right.

  Joba shook his head and stood up in a hurry, shaking the whole table with his bulk. The neighboring teams were looking at the huge boy now, Shiar’s included.

  Joba tried to cup his hands around his mouth, but it was useless. With a noise that sounded to Cego like a bullfrog in labor, Joba jerked his head forward violently as waterfalls of vomit poured from his hands. The poor boy tried to wipe his hands on his shirt, just as the next eruption burst from his mouth, splashing onto the table in front of him, and to Cego’s amazement, onto Mateus Winterfowl’s head, which happened to be perfectly positioned in Joba’s zone of havoc.

  The whole dining hall was watching the spectacle. Even the seasoned Level Sixers had expressions on their faces that said they’d never seen anything like it before. The smell was already pungent, and many of the students started to filter out of the hall rapidly.

  Joba fell to his knees, his hands back over his mouth, trying to stop the next eruption unsuccessfully. Cego caught Shiar’s gaze as he evacuated with the rest of the nearby students. Shiar’s eyes were wide in amusement, watching the big kid hurl his last few meals across the floor.

  The job was done. Now his friend needed some attention.

  “Someone get a cleric in here! My friend is sick!” Cego yelled.

  There would be nothing to do at this point but wait. Cego stood above Joba as he lay on the floor like a fallen beast, taking deep breaths between his bouts of sickness. “It’ll be OK, my friend. You’ll feel better soon,” Cego said, putting a hand on Joba’s back.

  Hopefully, Joba would feel better soon—they would need him. Abel had told him that the sickness from the concoction should last for only one day.

  Cego nodded to Sol, who was smiling for some reason. He took one look at Mateus Winterfowl, covered in Joba’s handiwork, and Cego smiled too.

  *

  With both Dozer and Joba out at the medward, Cego was ready to put the final piece of Operation Recovery into play—himself.

  He looked into the bunk mirror prior to heading down to Grappling Level One. Between his extra class load, training every day, studying for his Codes test, and the late nights planning Operation Recovery, he felt weak.

  Cego had dark circles beneath his eyes, and a bruise was swelling on his cheek from an errant knee during training yesterday. He ran his hand through his hair—it was getting quite long and unruly at this point. Cego’s back was stiff and his neck felt like a vise was clamping down on it. He was starting to understand what Murray-Ku was complaining about all the time—the constant aches and pains that wore his body down.

  As was his habit every day before he left Quarters, Cego rolled down the nape of his second skin and checked on the flux tattoo etched on his neck. He watched the little dragon hatch several times.

  “Wow, doesn’t look like you’ll need to do much to convince Shiar that you’re beat up,” Sol said from behind him, looking into the mirror.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Cego replied. “Walking around like this, I’m surprised the challenge hasn’t come already.”

  “Ah, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Sol said. “You still look better than any of those prissy purelight boys, always making sure their hair is combed and such.”

  Cego could feel the warmth flush to his cheeks. What did Sol mean by that?

  Cego stuttered, “Uh… yeah. What’s with that, anyways? Who combs their hair before getting in a fight? It’s just gonna get messed up anyways.”

  “I think it’s another of the strange customs they picked up from the Daimyos,” she replied, turning her face in disgust. “Mom used to bring me to Daimyo gatherings along with the Grievar from the rest of the Twelve. She’d comb my hair and put makeup on my face. I hated it.”

  “Makeup?” Cego asked.

  “Yes… it’s a set of powders and creams that Daimyo nobles use to cover up bruises and scars on their faces. Both the men and women, they put it on whenever they leave their homes.”

  “Why would anyone want to cover up their scars? What strange creatures…”

  “Strange… and weak. Yet they control us,” Sol said grimly, before quickly changing the subject. “Guess who wears it here, though?”

  Cego shrugged. He couldn’t fathom doing something like that.

  “Mateus,” Sol whispered. “I saw him putting some powder on in this very mirror to cover up a bump on his cheek.”

  Cego shook his head in disbelief. “No!”

  “Yes!” Sol smiled as they both tried to contain their laughter.

  Cego hurried over to Grappling Level One with the rest of his team. He was thinking about his conversation with Sol. Why was his head still there? He needed to concentrate on the task at hand. He needed to isolate Shiar and convince the Jackals to make their challenge. This was the final touch. If he didn’t pull this off, Operation Recovery would be stopped in its tracks.


  The class began as usual—Professor Sapao leading warm-ups and then showing a series of basic techniques for the class to drill. Though Cego usually enjoyed the drilling, he couldn’t focus today. He was looking ahead to the free-rolling period of the class.

  During free rolling, the students paired up and grappled for ten-minute rounds, with the goal of submitting their partner as many times as possible during that period. After each round, the students would switch partners. There were five rounds total, so Cego needed to make sure the Whelps timed this right.

  Cego started off the free-rolling period with members of his own team—Abel, Sol, and Mateus. He kept it relaxed with Abel, letting the small boy gain top position to hunt for submissions. With Sol, Cego fought harder. He’d never submitted her, though he’d tried to some extent. Her defense was excellent. With Mateus, Cego loved to attack—he really didn’t feel so bad about taking the purelight’s arms and legs at will. As the end of the round neared, Cego pushed off Mateus’s chest and swung around to attack his exposed arm. Mateus wisely tapped as Cego cranked on his elbow.

  The buzzer sounded and the students began to search for new partners for the fourth round. Sol, Mateus, and Cego headed directly for the clump of Jackals nearby.

  Cego needed to get on the mat with Shiar.

  Sol and Mateus successfully initiated rolls with two of the Jackals. Though it was a student’s choice to accept or decline a roll, it would be seen as a sign of weakness to turn someone from an opposing team down.

  Cego sought Shiar’s eyes but the boy had already partnered up with a member of his own team. Instead, Knees stood directly in front of Cego.

  “Let’s be doing this,” Knees said, his face expressionless.

  Cego hadn’t even thought about the possibility of rolling with Knees. Though Operation Recovery was entirely for Knees, Cego had nearly forgotten the reality that his old friend was a member of the Jackals, standing right in front of his face.