The Combat Codes by Alexander Darwin Read Free Book Online Page B

the little spectral that had visited him every day in his cell was up there in the mass of pulsing light.
    Cego’s eyes were wide and alive as he felt a strange tingling from the flux brand on his scalp. The light was communicating with his body, taking in every detail of the fight: how many heartbeats had passed, how many breaths he’d taken, the exact saturation of the oxygen running through his blood vessels.
    At its apex, the light suddenly dimmed and Cego was again standing in the noisy room. The drunken spectators were still yelling, the air still tinged with smoke and stifling body odors. His opponent’s crew entered the Circle, dragging the boy’s lifeless body across the floor and out of the room. Cego felt a pit in his stomach.
    Ozark still had that deep-cut frown on his face.
    The Tasker grabbed his arm, dragging him out of the den. “Don’t ever play with my chances in getting you sold off as fast as possible, boy, or I’ll make your life more miserable than it already is.”
    *
    Cego’s bit-price rose with every fight, his flux brand constantly shifting.
    He looked at his reflection in the dirty mirror of their bunk. The strange brand on his head was alive. The ink on the brand was in constant movement, the pixels never staying in one place, swirling and waiting for the next command from the light.
    Cego most recently beat a boy from Circle Crew Two that had been previously undefeated. The boy had come at him with a series of thudding leg kicks. He rubbed his thigh where a huge welt in the shape of the boy’s shin had swelled up. Walking, let alone training, would be tough today.
    As Cego won more fights, the rest of the crew began to tone down their tormenting. Although they ignored him for the most part, they removed the tin cans from his cot and no longer touched his food.
    Weep and another boy from the Crew Nine had lost their last fights, so Ozark was especially vindictive with the day’s training. With the damage his leg had sustained, Cego could barely make it through the drills.
    “Think you’re going to lose on my watch?! Think I’m going to just let that go?” Ozark screamed at the boys as they crawled on all fours in the red dirt.
    Weep fell to his belly in exhaustion. Ozark marched over to the little boy and placed his boot on his back, holding him to the ground. “Want to take a rest, you little sniveler, do you? All right, how about I take a rest too and stand right here for a while?” Ozark had his weight pressed on Weep’s back, crushing his boot down on him.
    Watching Weep struggle beneath Ozark’s boot, Cego could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickle up. His jaw clenched and his fingers curled into fists. He forgot about his sore body and the task at hand. He was on all fours in the dirt, his golden eyes locked on Ozark.
    Anger is like a boiling pot of water. Useful if you can keep the boil steady, but if turned too hot, it will overflow and become useless.
    The old master was right as usual. Attacking Ozark would be disastrous for the whole crew, Weep included. Cego breathed out deeply.
    Ozark removed his boot and yanked Weep back to his feet. “Keep moving,” he yelled as he prodded the little boy forward.
    A long rope run was to be the final drill for the day—the crew was barely standing at this point. The boys wearily attached the gnarled rope to their harnesses, pulling the line taut between them.
    Ozark was taking them past the limit this time. The Tasker wanted to make them stronger so they could win, so he could win. But this was beyond training. This was torture.
    The run began as it usually did, chaotically. Dozer surged forward, pulling the rest of the boys, some staggering and tripping over each other’s feet, others stumbling to the ground. They would never make it through the entire drill like this.
    Cego was the middle link. He needed to do something now.
    He placed his hands on Knees’ shoulders in front of him. The scar-faced boy was startled at