The Combat Codes by Alexander Darwin Read Free Book Online

to harden the boys for their fights. They weren’t taught techniques or skills for any long-term development. Thaloo had short-term sale in mind for most of his assets.
    Ozark shouted at the crew to do fifty pushups, his metallic voice scraping against the yard’s stone walls. He had them do dog crawls, running on all fours around the perimeter of the room until their legs couldn’t hold out. Next, it was sloth carries again, where one boy had to hoist another boy onto his shoulders and run until he fell to his knees.
    Every once and a while, Ozark would have them shadowbox or show him a round kick to measure progress. The gaunt man enjoyed watching the boys fall over as they tried to spin around on a misguided kick. He didn’t give them any advice; he laughed at them, a hyena-like wheeze.
    Cego knew the old master had taught him real technique, the tiniest movements that made a world of difference. How power in either a punch or kick came from the hips. How to generate leverage. How to use his opponent’s momentum to his benefit.
    Cego had been staying quiet for the past few days, cleaning out piss pots and doing whatever else was required of him. The crew had continued to make things difficult for him along the way, stealing his food, reporting his disobedience to Ozark, throwing sneaky elbows at him during their training in the yard.
    He knew it was almost time to use that momentum. Cego needed to show strength when he entered the Circle.
    *
    Cego’s first fight on Circle Crew Nine came fast. Tasker Ozark wanted to test him as soon as possible to see how much he’d be worth.
    He had rings under his eyes from the long hours training in the yard, and his body felt stiff from sleeping on the hard stone floor every night. The rest of Crew Nine stared Cego down as he walked out of the bunk.
    Ozark led him out toward the Circle den with the rest of the crew trailing behind. “Don’t start off on the wrong foot today, scumling. Losers stay losers,” the gaunt man warned him.
    They entered the large den at the center of Thaloo’s compound. Though Cego had already fought there several times, the place was different with his eyes open.
    The room around him was a blur of chaos. People were sitting along the bar, shouting, looking up at dozens of flashing lightboards. Men and women stood around the perimeter of the Circle, clanking their glasses against each other, pounding their hands on the railing, barking in a variety of languages Cego did not understand.
    The floor smelled like rotten ale. Foul smoke wafted to the ceiling from lit pipes. At the back of the room, vat meats were smoking on a heat pad, lending another acrid smell to the stale air.
    Cego could hardly breathe and he hadn’t even started moving yet. He attempted to calm himself as they walked to the edge of the Circle, expelling the air from his lungs as the old master had taught him. He couldn’t do it, though. He kept breathing in, the air getting tighter in his chest.
    Ozark shoved him forward into the steel Circle, which was pulsing now.
    He saw his opponent across from him. The boy was about Cego’s size, maybe a few inches taller, with a scrunched-up nose and inset eyes. Cego could see the brand on his head, his bit-price reflecting several fights he’d already won in this Circle. The boy’s Tasker was at his side, whispering in his ear.
    A large lightboard flashed to life above the Circle. There was a lifelike image of Cego and his opponent up there along with a series of fluctuating numbers he couldn’t focus on. Cego could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Could his opponent see that? He tried to take another deep breath unsuccessfully.
    Why was he fighting at Thaloo’s? Is this why the old master had trained him so diligently—to fight in a den for a bunch of drunken Deep folk? To get bought by some patron and serve out the rest of his days in their servitude? It didn’t make any sense to Cego; his head was spinning.
    Suddenly,