*
“Cego,” a voice cut through the void, reaching out to him.
Farmer?
“Cego,” the voice was louder this time. Someone grabbed his wrist.
Murray was standing over him.
“We really gotta get out of this habit, kid,” Murray said gruffly.
The medward again? No. Cego was back in the practice room. He could hear the cheers from beyond the walls, the Challenges ongoing.
He sat up from the flat bench he was lying on. A lightboard across the room was displaying the ongoing fights. He could see Sol, Dozer, and Joba each fighting on the screen. They were up against the second round of opponents from team Jab Mantis. Joba was up against Kōri Shimo. He should be in there, coaching him.
“What… what happened? Did we win?” Cego asked. He remembered entering the Circle, squaring up with Gryfin in the last round of challenges. After that, his memory went blank.
“Yeah. You won,” Murray said quietly. “But… at a cost.”
Cego put his hand to his face. He could feel the bruises along his cheek and a large hematoma on his forehead, though he couldn’t feel any open wounds. He gingerly slid off the bench and stood up. His legs were in working order, but his upper body felt tattered, like it was barely holding together at the seams.
“Your Daimyo friend… the little cleric. She stopped by,” Murray said. “She helped fix you up. You were far worse for the wear when I carried you from the Circle.”
Xenalia. Cego smiled thinking about the disapproving frown Xenalia must have worn when she saw his battered body. Grievar, breaking themselves over and over.
Murray did not smile along with him. If he’d won, what was wrong?
“Compared to Gryfin, though… you were in great shape,” Murray said.
“What… what do you mean?” Cego asked. “What happened in there?”
“You really don’t remember anything, kid? The whole fight?”
“No… I just remember standing in the Circle. Then nothing else. Darkness.”
Murray was silent, staring at Cego with those piercing yellow eyes as if he were trying to look through him.
“You… you won,” Murray said again.
Cego knew something was dreadfully wrong then. Murray didn’t sound like himself. He was talking to Cego like he was a stranger.
“Murray-Ku. Tell me what’s going on,” Cego said. Murray lifted his chest in a heaving, bear-like sigh but stayed stubbornly silent.
Cego suddenly saw himself on the lightboard above. SystemView was showing a replay from the last round. He was standing over Gryfin—both boys covered head to toe in blood. Gryfin was out, his eyes were closed, and yet Cego was slamming his fist into him, over and over.
Murray quickly switched the feed off. Cego stared at the blank screen.
“You were different in there. Something happened to you. Even after the bell sounded… you couldn’t stop. I think it must have been the onyx.”
Cego’s stomach sank. Gryfin.
“Do you mean… It can’t be,” Cego said. The words came out as a whimper. “Is he dead?”
“No. Nearly, though,” Murray whispered. “They have him in a tube at the medward. Keeping his brain steady to see if he can repair.”
Cego closed his eyes. He didn’t want to open them ever again. His worst fear had been realized. He was no better than Shiar now. He was as heartless as Kōri Shimo.
A memory flashed across the surface of Cego’s mind. Sol looking down at him like he was some sort of beast.
He was. He couldn’t control himself.
Murray grasped Cego’s shoulder and shook him until he opened his eyes. Tears were streaming out of them.
“It’s not your fault, kid,” Murray said.
“How can it not be my fault?” Cego yelled. “You saw it! I didn’t stop! He was out, and I kept attacking!”
“It’s not your fault,” Murray repeated quietly. “You were made to do that. All this time… you’ve been holding back.”
Cego stopped in his tracks. Made?
“What do you mean… made…”
“I got some answers for you, kid, like I said I would,” the big Grievar started. “You need to know that it won’t change anything though; you’re still the same—”
“Tell me,” Cego said.
“The reason you knew the Sim so well during the Trials. You were right. You knew it because you were made there, on the Island,” Murray said.
“How could I be made on the Island if it’s all part of the Sim?” Cego’s heart fluttered.
“They call it the Cradle. The Daimyos… Their bit-minders created it as a program to develop Grievar from birth in a simulated environment. They isolated Grievar brood, grew them, wired them into the Sim so that they could program them and make them into the perfect fighters.”
Somehow, Cego had known. When he’d seen Marvin floating in the vat in the medward, he’d felt it. Cego had been the one floating in there.
Maybe he’d known even before that. Clawing his way across the Underground’s streets, blinded by the unfamiliar light, his muscles weak from years of inactivity. Grown in a vat.
Had he just blocked out the memories this whole time? Or was he made to not know? Programmed like some mech to perform his specific function. To win. To kill.
“Far… The old master. He was all part of the Sim too? He doesn’t really exist?”
“I’m afraid not,” Murray said.
“And… my brothers. Silas and Sam. They grew up on the Island with me…” Cego didn’t care that anyone knew about them. None of it mattered anymore.
Murray shook his head slowly.
The room outside suddenly shook with a roar of applause as the buzzer sounded. Murray flicked the feed back on. The second round of fights had already finished—Sol and Dozer were done; he could see them standing in their Circles. Joba was on the ground with Kōri Shimo standing over him.
Cego didn’t meet Murray’s eyes as he moved toward the exit for the challenge grounds.
“What are you going to do?” Murray asked.
“What I was made for,” Cego replied.
15
Home
A Grievar shall make any worthy decision within the space of seven breaths. Indecision is the loose soil that stirs beneath the mountainous soul. It is better to take control of one’s path decisively, without the mind fraught with the weakness of indecision.
Twentieth Precept of the Combat Codes
Murray returned to the stands, taking his seat beside Dakar Pugilio.
“Drink, Pearson?” Dakar slurred his words already, holding a frothy glass out.
“I need more than drink…” Murray shook his head.
Pugilio slumped back to his seat, landing his feet atop the shoulders of the spectator in front of him. A Level Five turned around with a frown, which quickly disappeared when he saw the Commander of PublicJustice staring back at him.
“Always worryin’ now, Pearson. Look, your beard’s almost completely grey.” Dakar stroked his long mustache. “Whatever happened to that grin I remember flashin’ out on SystemView? Not a care in the world back then…”
Murray was silent as he watched Cego standing on the sidelines, preparing himself for the next challenge.
The kid was a few inches taller and had put on about thirty pounds of muscle since Murray had first seen him in the slave Circles. His black hair had grown out, falling across his eyes. He still had that same straight-backed posture though, his arms down by his sides like he wasn’t quite ready for a fight.
Cego would never be the same; Murray knew that.
No more looking out at the world with those curious eyes, asking why he’s fighting. The kid knew why he was fighting now.
He was a part of the system. A part of the corruption, the politics, the cowardice. A part of Callen Albright and Scout Cydek’s game of deception, a part of Commander Memnon’s blind devotion to the nation, a part of the Daimyo’s never-ending scheme to
warp the world to their liking.
Cego was deeper in it than anyone—he was created for this.
And yet the kid was innocent. He didn’t deserve this; he had no choice but to take the path he was on. Cego was a pawn in this game, just as Murray had been a pawn.
Murray frowned, recalling his own days in the Circle. Fighting as a Knight for Mercuri’s glory. Actually thinking he’d made a darkin’ difference.
We fight so that the rest shall not have to.
They fought so that the Daimyos could continue their senseless traditions—business, trade, diplomacy, culture. They fought so men like Thaloo could line their pockets and subjugate the helpless. They fought so this arms race would continue its vicious cycle—nations constantly trying to outdo each other and push their Grievar to the brink.
We fight because they force us to. We fight because they scream and spit, demanding our blood. How was a Grievar Knight fighting for thousands of cheering fans different from a street urchin getting pushed into the rusty bounds of a slave Circle?
A tone rang out, quieting the chatter of the crowd and signaling the fighters to take their Circles. Cego stepped onto the canvas, his stare blank. All eyes were on the six Grievar students at the center of the arena. Solara Halberd stood across from Tegan Masterton. Dozer faced off with Knees. Cego was taking on Shiar, again standing within the onyx frame.
Murray glanced at Dakar, who was now slumped over in his seat, snoring loudly. The spectrals began to descend from the arrays above, shedding their light on the Circles and casting the shadows from every corner of the arena.
Murray thought back to Old Aon’s words in the study. “There is a choice coming. A path in the light or a path in the shadows.”
Perhaps it was better to walk the path of shadows, to stay away from the light.
Perhaps Cego would have been better off if Murray had left him in those slave Circles. The kid wouldn’t be standing here in the light, spectrals buzzing around him like angry wasps. He wouldn’t be under the watchful eye of those who wanted to use him for their own motives. He wouldn’t be fighting his friends or his demons.
Perhaps Murray should have kept to the shadowed path as well. What if he’d never fought for Cego under the lights of Lampai? What if he’d kept his cowl drawn, kept to himself as he’d been doing for the past ten years? He’d be back to his standard; going Deep to buy broken kids, returning empty-handed, drinking himself to sleep every night, and then repeating it all over again.
That didn’t sound so bad anymore.
*
Cego stood still, staring across the onyx Circle at Shiar.
The jackal tossed his brown hair and played to the crowd, throwing combinations, switching stances, whipping out a fancy wheel kick. Some of his purelight comrades cheered.
Shiar hadn’t changed since Cego had met him in the slave Circles. He was the same arrogant, ruthless boy who thirsted on tormenting those weaker than him. He still believed that that honor and humility had no place on a Grievar’s path. He believed the Codes were dead. It was all about winning for Shiar.
He still had that same smirk on his face, that same carnivorous grin he’d flashed at Cego while kicking the life out of Weep on the yard’s red dirt.
Cego knew he should hate Shiar for what he’d done. He didn’t hate him, though. Cego didn’t care who stood across the Circle from him anymore.
He could already feel the onyx’s black light deep in his bones—pulsing from the sinews of his muscles, writhing from his organs, seething from his skeleton. The light pupated from every inch of his body, a body that had spent more time growing in some vat than walking on this hard earth.
Cego saw himself from the stands again—straight-backed, swaying slightly, staring blankly across the canvas at Shiar.
No, he didn’t hate Shiar. The boy was just another vessel, a body. Another sack carrying blood and bones and entrails, stuffed full of lies like honor and happiness, hate and love.
Another body to be broken.
Cego felt the spectral light reach its height and he was already moving across the Circle, careening toward Shiar a split second before the buzzer rang out. The crowd around them didn’t notice the preemptive start; it was too fast. Shiar noticed, though.
The jackal raised his hands defensively as Cego ripped into him.
Cego slammed the ball of his foot into Shiar’s knee, listening for the crackling of ligaments as the boy buckled. He threw two quick jabs and whipped around with a spinning backfist that found its home at the side of Shiar’s skull.
Cego followed his prey to the ground, ripping two quick knees into Shiar’s body to soften him up. He took mount, squeezing down from on top of Shiar, driving his fist into the boy’s throat as he attempted to catch a quick breath.
Shiar attempted to fend off the whirlwind of violence, forgoing technique, frantically shoving at the creature on top of him.
Cego seized the opportunity, swiveling around for an arm bar, not slowing as he heard the boy’s elbow snap.
His prey was trying to escape. Shiar was squirming out from beneath Cego, getting to his feet, doing whatever he could to put distance between them.
He wouldn’t escape.
Cego hooked his feet around Shiar’s ankle, sweeping him back to the ground. He found the boy’s heel, wrapping it in the crook of his arm and wrenching it, not stopping as he felt the boy’s knee tear apart, ligaments and tendons writhing like sliced worms. Shiar screamed, a piercing wail that cut through the cheering crowd.
Cego didn’t hear Shiar’s scream. The sound was commonplace, the inevitable gasp a hind releases as the wolf finds its throat.
Cego didn’t see the crowd around him, staring at him with both reverence and disgust. He didn’t see Murray grimace from the stands, covering his face with his hands. He didn’t see Callen Albright smiling from his box, watching the fight from high above.
Cego didn’t see Sol and Tegan Masterton in the next Circle over, the two engaged in a strategic match, carefully circling, trading jabs and teeps, fending off and precisely timing their takedowns, knowing that one mistake could be the decisive factor.
Cego didn’t see Dozer and Knees trading blows at a frenetic pace, the two so well versed in each other’s games but so unfamiliar with fighting with such heightened emotion, Dozer wincing every time his fist rattled Knee’s skull, Knees attacking Dozer with a ferocity that forgot everything the two had gone through together.
Cego didn’t see anything but Shiar, his prey—more limbs to be torn, more flesh to bludgeon, more arteries to constrict. Everything else around Cego had dimmed as darkness found its way to the edges of his vision.
He could hear Shiar’s beating heart, pulsing with the darkness that closed around him.
He found the quickest path to that beating heart—wrapping his arm across Shiar’s throat, feeling the arteries on either side, cutting off the blood flow to the boy’s brain. He could feel the pulse slow, the blood shutter up—the boy’s heart desperately trying to pump more sustenance through the sealed pathways, the beat slowing as the muscle strained.
He needed to stop that beating heart. Only when it stopped could Cego rest.
*
“Feel that?”
The voice dropped into the darkness around him like a stone tossed into a still pool, sending ripples out in all directions.
“Feel how the edges of your vision start to go fuzzy? That’s how I know it’s on.”
It was his own voice. He sounded different—younger.
“Now you try it on me. I’ll let you know when you have it right.”
He was small. Only a child.
“Did I do it right?”
Another voice. Sam.
Little Sam was clinging to Cego’s back, practicing a simple technique—Mata leão.
“You’re squeezing the front of my throat—that’s an air choke. You want to squeeze here and here.” Cego showed Sam where the arteries ran along the side of his neck.
; Sam, barely five years old, wrapped his arm around Cego’s neck and squeezed until his brother slapped his shoulder.
“Tap, tap!” Cego coughed as his little brother released the choke. “That was perfect, Sam.”
The two stood up on the black-sand beach, looking out at the emerald waters. Arry sat beside the brothers, wagging her tail and trying to discern what they were staring at.
“Think he’ll bring anything back?” Sam asked.
“Knowing Silas, yeah, he’ll bring back a big one,” Cego replied, watching the figure in the distance swimming toward shore.
“The big fish are the tastiest,” Sam licked his lips. “Let’s get some crabs, too!”
Before Cego could stop the little boy, Sam began to sprint across the beach toward the tide pools, Arry making a valiant effort to keep at his heels.
Cego kept his eyes to the sea, watching his older brother get closer to shore. The sun dipped low in the sky and he could see the faint outline of the Path emerging from the deep.
“You’d best be careful, showing Sam too much,” the old master said, suddenly standing beside Cego on the beach. “He’ll be nipping at your heels before long.”
“It’s okay,” Cego replied. “My opponent is my teacher. Besides, it’ll be good to have someone else to train with besides Silas. Someone a little bit easier…”
Farmer nodded, his grey topknot bristling in the wind. The two were silent, watching the sinking sun. Cego could hear Farmer breathing. He knew the old master’s chest was rising and falling with the tide.
Silas was soon nearing shore and the sun had fallen farther in the sky, painting it with wide swaths of reds and yellows. The Path was almost fully visible now, the stark green trailing its way to the horizon like a serpent.
“Where does it go?” Cego asked, staring out at the luminescent water.
“It goes home,” Farmer replied.
“I thought this is home,” Cego said. “The Island.”
“This is home too,” Farmer said. “We have many homes.”
“How can we have more than one home?”
The old master pointed to the sinking sun. “The sun leaves home every morning, rising over the ironwood forest to the east. It travels the same path every day, reaching its height in the sky, before sinking over the sea to the west. There it finds another home at night.”
The Combat Codes Page 33